


Fic Off 2020

by Arlome, aurora_australis



Category: Miss Fisher and the Crypt of Tears (2020), Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Gen, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:42:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 31,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27763939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arlome/pseuds/Arlome, https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurora_australis/pseuds/aurora_australis
Summary: 31 separate chapters, posted throughout the month of December, each prompted by a character, a location and a word.
Relationships: Phryne Fisher & Jane Ross, Phryne Fisher & Prudence Stanley, Phryne Fisher/Jack Robinson
Comments: 644
Kudos: 223





	1. Champion

**Author's Note:**

> So 2020 sure has been a dumpster fire, huh? But since we make our own joy around here we're sending it off better than it deserves anyway.
> 
> Every day in December we'll post a new chapter based on a prompt of a character, a location and a word. Join us for thirty-wonderful flavors of MFMM as we tell 2020 to fic off and count down to a new year together!
> 
> XOXO, Arlome and Aurora
> 
> P.S. Each chapter will have its own rating, so just know you could be getting anything from G to M and read at your own risk! 😉

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellllloooooooooooo, my darlings!  
> Are we ready to kick off this collection with a BANG??  
> I know I am!  
> So just lie back and think of Australia :D
> 
> xx  
> Arlome

Jack Robinson fucks like a champion.

He’s eager, confident, attentive, and has the mouth and fingers of a proficient libertine despite being monogamous to a fault. His impressive equipment deserves a medal or three, in Phryne’s not-quite-so-humble opinion, and the way he employs it certainly warrants an accolade; perhaps even from the Chief Commissioner himself.

In fact, the man should really Fuck For Australia (Phryne thinks as he moves within her with the precision of a skilled marksman); such prowess should really be lauded from atop a podium, with the National Anthem playing loudly and enthusiastically in the background. 

Now, there’s a trophy to display at the office!

The thought makes her giggle and gasp just as Jack does something particularly clever with his hips, and her eyes cross and roll back into her head. Damn the man for knowing her body so well after so little time!

It’s embarrassing how easily she climaxes from all his adroit manoeuvres, how efficiently he dismantles her - wire by wire - until she’s defused and harmless in his arms (if only for a little while). She arches into him and cries in his ear, and shatters and shakes at the scant, filthy profanities he groans into her skin when he himself is close to crashing. They stumble and break and reassemble together, and Phryne feels invigorated and alive, even more so for tearing completely at the seams.

Orgasms always wake her; she’s awash with pounding blood, brimming with renewed energy. There’s a deep flush in her taut cheeks, a shine to her eyes; her hips burning with a gaping appetite. she wants, wants,  _ wants  _ \- more and more and more - there’s a rekindled fire in her belly, begging to be extinguished. Preferably slowly, and with quite a massive dose of teasing -

\- which seems to be a problem at the moment, because, while Jack Robinson fucks like a champion, he also, unfortunately, sleeps like one. 

Like many other men worth their salt, Detective Inspector Jack Robinson - he of the magnificent cock - promptly falls asleep after lovemaking. It can’t be helped, really; he’s out like a light a few minutes post-coitus, face plunged into the pillow and sleeping the sleep of the dearly departed. It would be incredibly endearing if she weren’t so wound up for a second round. 

Tonight, though, Phryne Fisher is rather determined to get her way.

She squirms closer to Jack’s immobile body and moulds her still somewhat sweaty front to his cooling back; he groans deep in his throat and shifts a little against the mattress, but, otherwise, doesn’t move.

Not one to be discouraged so easily, Phryne slides her fingers into the mass of waves atop his head and tugs softly.

“Jaaccckkk,” she coos into his ear, her lips slipping a little lower to nibble on his jaw and throat. “Jack, wake up. I want you again.”

He mumbles something unintelligible and sighs rather dramatically; Phryne chuckles softly and plants a kiss below his ear, delighted when his skin breaks out in goosebumps. 

“I’ll make it worth your while,” she offers, her tone sultry, as she slides her hand downwards, towards the most glorious set of buttocks she’s ever laid eyes on.

“A man needs his beauty sleep, Miss Fisher,” comes the muffled reply. 

Phryne pinches his bum playfully.

“You’re already beautiful enough, Inspector.”

He laughs softly and turns his head to peek at her through one bleary eye.

“Phryne, I love you,” he groans, yawning wide enough to dislocate his jaw, “but I’m exhausted, truly ... ”

She decides to take pity on him and kisses his cheek. He hasn’t even noticed the momentous confession he let slip in his sleep-addled state.

Jack smiles at the touch and turns around. He’s asleep within seconds.

With a fond huff, Phryne settles back against the pillows; looks like she’ll have to fend for herself.

Smiling impishly, she lies back and thinks of Australia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Scrugzzi, who asked for - Phryne, Jack’s bed, nibble.


	2. Teacups and Toast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woooow. Well then. *fans self* Arlome certainly did start us off with a bang there, didn't she? 😍
> 
> And now, since apparently they were getting a little too close, here comes Aunt P!
> 
> “Is that the Chapter 2?”
> 
> 😂

Prudence smiled to herself as she swirled her toes in the pool, and took another sip from her teacup. In truth, it hadn’t been the most dignified of descents to get to her current position, but the feel of the cool water on her bare feet made it all worthwhile.

She placed the cup and saucer back down on the edge of the pool to adjust the skirt of her dress and continued with her update.

“Well I suppose that concludes all the important business developments. Oh and you’ll be happy to know that John Mason has taken over from Mr Hanson very nicely, even if he is a little too _bon vivant_ for my tastes,” she said with a wrinkle of her nose as she picked the teacup back up. “Yes, it’s all running extremely smoothly these days, though of course it took them some time to find their footing without you.”

Another swirl, another sip. 

“Regarding the family, I received a letter from Guy last week. It seems Isabella’s older sister has moved in and is, quote, ‘cramping their style a bit’, which sounded just fine to me.” Prudence chuckled. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think their style could use a little cramping.” She swirled the brown liquid around the cup thoughtfully. “But they seem happy, which is of course the most pertinent detail. What else…?” Prudence frowned as she tried to recall any other relevant information.

“Oh yes! Mary and the baby! I don’t believe I told you, but young Teddy is walking. Walking and talking and generally interested in _everything_. We had to put all the good china up higher this week lest we lose another gravy dish to his exuberance.” Her smile turned a little wistful. 

“He actually reminds me of Arthur a bit at that age. Always such a curious lad. He must be pestering you with a thousand questions now.” Prudence chuckled again. “I’m actually a little jealous. But don’t tell him,” she whispered conspiratorially, “or he’ll be positively impossible when it’s my turn.”

Prudence kicked at the water. 

“I think that’s everything for now. All in all… all in all I’m pleased. Guy is settled, or as settled as Guy is capable of. Arthur, bless him, is at peace. Even Phryne is … well Phryne is not in jail, which, let’s be honest, is more than either of us could have hoped for when she was a girl.”

Prudence smiled contentedly. “Really, I think we did well, Edward. You should be proud. I am.” She raised her cup in toast. “Cheers, my love.”

She was just putting the cup back in its saucer when a noise from behind caught her attention. Suddenly, there on the deck, was Phryne, looking positively frazzled.

“There you are!” she exclaimed. “I’ve — ”

The younger woman took in Prudence’s position at the edge of the pool, her stockings and shoes neatly placed next to her, and stopped mid-sentence, then flat out gaped at her aunt.

Prudence raised the teacup again to hide a smirk behind it.

“Close your mouth, my dear, you’ll catch flies.”

Phryne did as she was told — there really was a first time for everything — and approached. Slowly, cautiously, the way one would a skittish animal.

Prudence rolled her eyes. 

“Aunt P?” Phryne asked as she pulled up a chair to sit beside the older woman. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. You’re the one who seems to be confused.”

Phryne raised her eyebrows and moved to say something else, then stopped, her nose wrinkling as she did. 

Phryne leaned over and took a whiff of Prudence’s teacup.

“Aunt P, is that... _rum_?”

Phryne’s eyes became saucers and Prudence sniffed in a way that had nothing to do with her olfactory system. “Oh do calm down, Phryne, it’s not as though I’m on top of some bar belting one of your jazz tunes. I am on my own property and if I choose to enjoy a libation or two poolside, _I will do so_.”

Phryne rolled her lips, but refrained from saying anything else, which Prudence appreciated. After a moment or two of silence, Prudence gave a resigned sigh and handed the cup to her niece, who accepted it with a surprised little grin, took a sip and then proceeded to cough uncontrollably. After Phryne finally calmed herself she stared, horrified, at her aunt.

“Aunt P, what is this??”

Prudence sniffed again. “I believe Albert said it fell off the back of a train.” She took the teacup back from her niece and enjoyed another sip. “And if you can’t handle your liquor, my dear, I suggest you go back to finishing school.”

Phryne let out a startled laugh and then Prudence laughed with her and then they both quieted and sat silently again, staring into the water. When she was very close to the bottom of her cup, Prudence finally broke the silence.

“Today would have been my 40th wedding anniversary, you know.”

Phryne turned to her aunt, her face sympathetic and sad. 

“Oh, of course. Aunt Prudence, I’m so sorry, I — ”

“Don’t… don’t get the wrong idea. I’m not out here drowning my sorrows. I simply… well I wanted to toast my husband on our anniversary, that’s all.”

Her eyebrows still furrowed with worry, Phryne looked over her aunt carefully. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Quite.” Prudence frowned, trying to explain. “Phryne, I assure you, I am perfectly well. I miss him every day, of course, and I may very well be sad tomorrow, but today… today I choose to celebrate. We had 35 happy years together; I consider myself luckier than most.”

Phryne nodded, then leaned down to envelope her aunt in a fierce hug. Prudence returned it, begrudgingly, then made a little shooing motion with her hands. “Now, go back up to the house. I’ll be there presently, I promise.”

Phryne seemed unconvinced, so Prudence put on her best disapproving glare to persuade her. Luckily, it worked — Phryne stood and began her walk back to the house — for which Prudence was infinitely grateful; the descent hadn’t been dignified, but getting back up was going to be downright ludicrous.

With one final swish of her feet in the pool, she raised the last drops of her drink up in toast and smiled, as tipsy on mirth and memories as she was Bert’s rather potent rum.

“Happy Anniversary, my darling.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Jobeth2714, who asked for - Aunt Prudence, RipponLea, happy tipsy.


	3. Prattle and Prevarication

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed Aurora's absolutely brilliant ficlet about our favourite matriarch! Wasn't it just the loveliest???
> 
> Today's entry is very different in tone, I'm afraid:D  
> Fair warning - this one's really silly! Hope this works for you!
> 
> xx  
> Arlome

“My, this party is certainly  _ very  _ diverting, wouldn’t you say so, my dear?”

“Ah. No doubt you’re referring to the subject of Miss Fisher’s latest conquest?” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t call it  _ conquest,  _ Carol. From what I hear, the man came easily enough. All the way from the Antipodes, no less! Consider the scandal, my dear!”

“Yes, quite, quite… She does have good taste, though, you must admit, Helen. The man cuts a fine figure.”

“Well, I suppose, if you’re interested in that sort of thing.”

“I usually am.”

“Oh, a-haha.”

“A-haha.”

….

…..

“But really, Carol dear, have you noticed how tan he is? And that accent! I couldn’t understand half of what he was saying - “

_ “ _ Oh, I - I haven’t really noticed, Helen… he could have said anything... in that voice _...” _

“ - in that funny jargon they use in that God-forsaken place.”

_ “... he could read the paper or the street signs - I wouldn’t mind… _ ”

“What?”

“What?”

…..

…..

“Oh, and did you hear he has a profession? A  _ profession _ , Carol! A policeman, of all things! Poor Margaret must be beside herself!”

“No doubt, no doubt… He does have this striking air of authority about him, though, wouldn’t you say, Helen? Quite… intriguing.”

“Well, I suppose. If you’re interested in that sort of thing.”

“I usually am.”

“Oh, a-haha!”

“A-haha.”

….

…..

“In any case, aren’t they all convicts down there in that horrible place?” 

“Well, if they are, Helen, then I suppose his choice of profession is quite appropriate; he must be keeping very busy in that, ehm, penal colony... I do wonder if he brought his handcuffs along….and his truncheon….”

“What about it?”

“Oh, nothing. Just wondering aloud. You know, just the general thing - length, girth…”

“What a silly notion, Carol! Why should we care about the man’s  _ truncheon _ ?”

“Oh. no reason…”

…..

…...

“I just don’t see what a woman such as her sees in a man such as him, when there are far more appropriate,  _ Titled  _ options about!”

“Oh, quite right, Helen dear… He does have the most astounding pair of cheekbones, though. Wouldn’t you agree? And that jawline!”

“Well, I suppose. If you’re interested in that sort of thing.”

“I usually am.”

“Oh, a-haha!”

“A-haha!”

…..

…..

“You’re right about the cheekbones, I suppose, Carol. There’s something rather….  _ Celtic  _ about him - no doubt passed on to him from his convict ancestors.” 

“Hmmm. Irish, perhaps?”

“Jewish, actually; with a fair serving of Scottish on the side. Good evening, Lady Newome, Mrs Shaw.”

“M-Miss Fisher! And Mr Robinson, w-what a  _ delight _ !”

“Mhmm. Ladies.”

“It’s Detective Inspector Robinson, actually, Lady Newsome. And it’s  _ Mrs  _ Robinson.”

“O-oh! It seems c-congratulations are in order! Your mother must be  _ thrilled,  _ m-my dear.”

“ _ Ecstatic _ .” 

….

…..

…..

“Well! We must be off, but you two enjoy the rest of your evening. Come along, Helen. Let’s leave the young couple to themselves.”

….

……

“Ugh. Insufferable, horrid little wea -”

“Leave it,  _ Mrs Robinson _ .

“Oh, don’t sulk, Jack!”

“I’m not sulking, Miss Fisher, I just wish I knew our recent visit to my grandparents in Scotland involved an elopement. I’m sorry I’ve missed it.” 

“Oh, it was quite the ceremony! The bride was radiant and the bridegroom wasn’t too bad, either.”

“Phryne…” 

“Oh, alright! I’m sorry, Jack, I just couldn’t stand to hear those dreadful hens carrying on about you in that horrible fashion!”

“So you’ve decided to vindicate our relationship by lying about the nature of it to some toffs at a party?”

“Yes! No, wait...Jack, no…”

“Phryne… I don’t care what the London high society thinks of me. I don’t care what it thinks about  _ us _ , either… Unless, of course,  _ you  _ do?”

“No! Jack, I don’t... I don’t give a jot about any of this, you know that!“

“Good. Good.”

….

“You do know what the problem with your little fib is, don’t you?”

“Problem? What problem?”

“Based on the conversation we’ve just overheard, I’d say those women are two of the biggest gossips in London - “

“Correct.”

“ - And based on this assumption, how long do you think before all of England learns of your secret husband?”

“...Oh dear.”

“And since the gossip columns in Melbourne pick up every little tidbit of news about you, how long - in your estimation - before our friends, and family - and, of course, the Victorian Police Force - learn about this little charade as well?”

“Oh, no!”

“Oh, yes, Miss Fisher.”

….

….

“Well, Jack, if you think about it, the solution is quite simple, really.”

“...Is it?”

“Oh, yes. After all, I did say I always lie as little as possible…?”

…

…

“ _ What? _ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the lovely Particularfavorite, who asked for "Jack, wealthy snobbish estate party, vindication."
> 
> Okay, so a wee explanation on the 'Jewish' front: I hc Jack's mum as a German Jew.  
> It's started out as a little ficlet and has since evolved into a massive WIP that just won't stop taking over every fic I write.  
> So yes, Jack's Jewish now.
> 
> Oy Vey.


	4. Sound Planning

Mr Butler was not, by nature, a nosy man, and even if he had been, his training would have rid him of that particular inclination long ago. A good butler knew the value of discretion and, for everyone's sake, how to keep themselves separate from the people they served. 

However…

However Mr Butler also knew that an _exceptional_ butler understood the difference between nosy and informed. Knew that sometimes listening in, just a bit, could aid in the job, the volume and timbre of a conversation providing clues a domestic detective like himself could use to solve a hundred cases a day.

Take, for example, Miss Fisher’s varied visitors. Voices growing gradually louder at dinner usually meant it was time for him to serve dessert. Lower murmurs meant drinks. The sudden absence of sound altogether indicated it was time for him to quietly retire for the evening. He heard just enough to know what was needed of him — or not — but no more. It was a balance he struck well and one that allowed him to ascertain the mood of any given situation or guest.

Except for the Inspector.

The Inspector was… an enigma. More accurately, the Inspector and his employer _together_ were an enigma. Voices growing gradually louder could mean a break in the case or an argument about classical poetry. Lower murmurs could mean theories regarding a suspect or discussions about international shipping lanes. The sudden absence of sound altogether could mean just about anything… except what it ought.

And really they stood far too close most of the time for him to hear a thing anyway.

An enigma.

Mr Butler was contemplating as much one evening as he polished the silver, when the sound of Miss Fisher’s laughter drifted in from the parlour. Not unusual, she often laughed with the Inspector, nothing to be gleaned from that. But then… then he heard a new sound.

The Inspector’s laugh in return.

Not that the Inspector didn’t express amusement at Wardlow; he did, often. But his was usually more of a wry chuckle or brief guffaw or, most commonly, a silent laughter one could find only in his eyes. But this… this was a true laugh, from deep in the man’s chest, a joy burst forth that could not be contained.

Well… wasn’t that interesting?

That was the night Mr Butler began to prepare in earnest.

He was subtle, of course, and discreet: an extra razor, men’s shaving soap, a pair of blue pajamas in just the right size.

He didn’t do anything with them, just kept them on hand. For when they’d be needed.

But the next time Mr Butler heard two sets of laughter in the parlour, he listened a little closer. And when all he heard was a sudden absence of sound, he knew it was finally time for him to quietly retire for the evening. Which he did.

He didn’t think the pajamas would be needed just now anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a-wonderingmind who asked for “Jack, parlour, laughter” and, honestly, what a lovely combination. ❤️


	5. At the End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends!  
> I hope you've all enjoyed Aurora's utterly magnificent chapter about the omniscient Mr B and Jack Robinson's lovely laughter. Wasn't it just the best??
> 
> I hope you like what I have for you today. It's definitely different than my first two prompts.
> 
> xx  
> Arlome

His house is much nicer than  she’d expected, all things considered. 

Its exterior is well-kept and aesthetically pleasing; dark-grey gable and baluster fretwork, a forest-green front door, a well-cultivated flower patch at the front. The windows are large, the curtains behind their panes exquisitely crafted, no doubt by the hand of a once-loving wife. She has no doubt Dot would coo at the handiwork if she happened upon it. 

It’s a nice neighbourhood, too - she was rather surprised when she managed to glean the coveted address - clean, respectable; no urchins in sight. Not the sort of house or place a man living on a police salary should be able to afford. And yet…

Not for the first time - and surely not for the last - she finds herself remarkably intrigued. The man and his well-cut suits and well-cut house are certainly a never-ending source of mystery. 

Luckily, she quite likes a challenge. 

It’s late, but the desire to see him - a desire that’s been steadily growing over the past few weeks - overpowers every law of social etiquette she may feel obliged to follow. There are pressing matters to attend to, matters that keep her from closure; she hopes that Jack won’t begrudge her the peace of mind she hopes to achieve with this unexpected visit, despite the impropriety of the hour. 

A knock - _ two, three _ \- on the door and he’s summoned, bleary-eyed and smelling strongly of spirits. She almost recoils at the unexpected, unfamiliar sight. Hair ruffled, suit jacket discarded, he frowns at her through a veil of drink. She’s never seen him inebriated before.

“Miss Fisher, what…?”

His voice is hoarse - deeper, more gravelly than usual - and she has to fight the familiar flutter of desire deep in her gut at the sound. This is not the time, and the man… the man is not the man - certainly not in his own eyes.

“May I come in, Jack?” she asks, ignoring his question, and - not waiting for his reply - pushes past him and into his house. Now is not the time for hesitancy, either. 

He pauses for a few moments before following her heavily inside. She can hear him shuffling his feet, stumbling a little; he must have consumed a significant quantity of liquor to come so thoroughly undone. 

She finds the evidence in his parlour; there’s an empty bottle of quality single malt whisky standing on a lovely round oak table, next to his armchair. A delicately woven lace tablecloth shields the wood from the staining drink; an errant drop of whisky, sliding the glass slopes all the way down to the spotless lace, catches her eye. It’s a silly thing to notice in the midst of it all, but she can’t help but feel sorry for the fate of the delicate cloth.

“Shame…” she mutters, distractedly, her fingers twitching. 

“What are you doing here, Miss Fisher?” Jack inquires from behind, his voice surprisingly steady. “You’re supposed to be in hospital.” 

“You know me, Jack!” she turns, smiling almost too brightly, trying to make light of what appears to be a heavy situation. “Wild horses couldn’t keep me in that dreary place; or Mac, for that matter.”

He gives her a look that clearly says how unamused by her antics he is.

She sighs and shrugs, casting the false cheerfulness aside.

“Once Foyle’s foul concoction had worn off, there was no reason to keep me,” she explains, her voice softer. “I’m fine, Jack, truly. But you? I’m not so sure…”

He sinks into his armchair, looking defeated, and motions with a weary wave of a hand for her to do the same. She settles into an elegant looking chair opposite of him and watches curiously as he picks the empty bottle up and starts scratching at the label. 

“My divorce was finalised a few days ago,” he says, at last, after a little while. His eyes are downcast, shoulders slumped. So that’s why he’s been drinking. 

She’s suspected, of course - Hugh is a sweet boy, but he can’t hold a secret to save his life - but the whole fiasco with Foyle unfolded before she had the chance to enquire further into the matter, and then the tidbit of information flew right out of her mind.

“Jack…” her heart twinges a little at his hunched, dejected figure. His forced solitude touches her in a way she’d not expected. “Would you like to talk about it…?”

He shrugs. 

“What is there to say?” he mutters gloomily. “Probably for the best, really. In the end, I couldn’t give her what she wanted; a happy home, an ambitious husband unburdened by war - that  _ blasted  _ war...Couldn’t even give her a living child…” 

‘A  _ living  _ child’, he’s said. She doesn’t want to think about the implication of that word. 

When she says nothing, he shakes himself and places the bottle and the little label shavings he’s gathered back on the tablecloth. 

“Why are you here, Miss Fisher?” he asks again, voice falsely-cheerful, and fixes her with surprisingly clear eyes. “And how did you find out where I live?”

It looks like they’re done talking about his failed marriage. She can’t say she’s sorry to see the subject dropped. 

“Your constable is very obliging, Inspector,” she smiles coquettishly, reaching into her bag and producing a little parcel. “I brought you some of Mr Butler’s famous biscuits!”

Jack looks at the folded napkin for a few seconds, then fixes her with a piercing stare.

“Why are you  _ really  _ here, Phryne?”

The sound of her name, slipping so easily off his lips, shakes her enough to drop all pretence. 

“You’re very observant, Jack Robinson, even with enough drink in your system to flatten out a horse.” She looks at her hands. “I… I know you’re about to head out to the location Foyle divulged before he… I want to be there, Jack, I  _ need  _ to be there - ”

“Of course,” he says immediately, interrupting her uncharacteristically somewhat incoherent explanation. She raises her eyes to stare at him, visibly shocked. 

He smiles softly at her stunned look and shakes his head.

“Why did you think I’ve waited this long to go?” he asks gently. “I wouldn’t dream of barring you from going. You found her, Phryne; you deserve that closure.”

A wave of such intense gratitude washes over her, that it feels a little like drowning, like suffocating. Overwhelmed by his kindness, touched by his thoughtfulness, she bites her lower lip to keep herself from sobbing in stark relief. 

“Jack….” she sighs, blinking. “Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it,” he offers humbly and staggers to his feet, placing a rather heavy lid on the subject. “Would you like some tea? We can share those famous biscuits you’ve brought.”

There are so many things she’d like to say to him, so many questions to ask. She wants to know how he came by the house, to inquire after the cultivation of his fine taste in whisky; she’d like to tell him that she wouldn’t have found Janey without his invaluable help, and that he’s the very best of men. She wants to sit in his elegant parlour and talk to him for hours on end, just basking in his freely-given companionship. Above all else, she wants to thank him for being her friend. 

“I’d love that,” she says instead, and he nods.

Some things can wait for after tea. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Joaryn, who asked for 'Phryne, Jack's home, divorce'.  
> And, well, I couldn't resist, really.


	6. Relish

He’d been behaving oddly all morning, an air of mischievousness and youthful energy about him ever since she’d announced their destination, which, frankly, confounded her. It was the Melbourne Public Library for goodness sake, practically holy ground to a bibliophile like Jack Robinson. 

So why was he acting so peculiarly?

She contemplated the question to herself while she waited for him in the Hispano, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel in time to the jazz tune they’d been dancing to the night before. She was contemplating so hard, in fact, that she missed his return to the vehicle, wearing the change of clothes he’d insisted on before heading to the library. She started as he opened the passenger side door and then rolled her eyes at his obvious delight in surprising her. He slid his briefcase into her car and then took a seat himself. Phryne pulled away from the kerb and off they went.

On the drive over he was quiet, which was not odd in and of itself, but he also made not a single comment on her driving, which was very odd indeed. Eventually she just out and asked him.

“Do you disagree that the cypher can be found in the Rare Books collection?”

Jack looked over at her in confusion. “No. And I told you as much this morning. Why do you ask?”

“Because you’re acting strangely and I can’t figure out why.”

Jack shot her a small smirk and then went back to looking out at the scenery. “You’re a detective, I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” he told the passing trees without further elaboration. Phryne narrowed her eyes. There it was again, that mischievousness.

Aggravating man.

They arrived shortly and parked the car, then went in the La Trobe Street entrance to the library. They checked in and were very near the Domed Reading Room when one of the library’s guards, a man in his early sixties with salt and pepper hair, appeared in front of them, his expression pure animosity.

Phryne opened her mouth to ask what the trouble was, but to her surprise heard Jack speak first instead.

“Mr Mills,” he greeted in a placid tone.

“Robinson,” the other man grunted. “You’re back, I see.”

“I am,” Jack confirmed. “On official police business this time too, so perhaps...?” Jack made a vague motion with his hand that meant “move along” but the older man held his ground.

“You know the drill,” he replied instead.

Jack sighed dramatically and handed the other man his coat and briefcase, then began turning his pockets out. Phryne, starred, gobsmacked for a moment before finding her voice.

“I’m sorry, what is — ”

“This doesn’t concern you, Miss,” the guard told her politely but firmly. “This is between me and Robinson.”

Phryne’s eyebrows shot up above her hairline and she whipped her head around to Jack, silently urging an explanation. Jack just shrugged his shoulders, but there was a twinkle in his eye as he did.

The guard had finished going through the pockets of Jack’s coat — clearly not finding whatever it was he was looking for — and had moved on to his briefcase. He took out a few notebooks, some loose papers, gave the case a thorough search, then returned it all with a huff. He handed the briefcase back to Jack, who Phryne thought was looking particularly smug now, and crossed his arms. 

“Alright,” he spat out. “On your way,”

Then the guard turned and walked back down the hall, not sparing another look for Jack.

Phryne, on the other hand, was openly staring at him.

“What,” she demanded, “was that about?”

Jack gave her what could only be called an impish grin, winked - _winked!_ \- and began sauntering down the hall. Phryne watched him walk away for a moment before regaining the use of her legs and hurrying up to follow. She caught up to him just as he was entering the Reading Room.

“Jack!” she hissed, aware of the quiet in the room but fairly vibrating with the need to know just what in the hell had come over her usually staid Inspector. 

Jack raised an eyebrow and caught her elbow, pulling her gently into one of the smaller side rooms that was always empty at this time of day. He put his briefcase on the table and gestured for her to take a seat, doing the same himself and turning the chair slightly to face her.

“Fine,” he agreed. “But before we start,” he added in what would have been a serious tone except for the humour in his eyes, “and I tell you my deepest secret… are you sure you’re ready to become an accessory after the fact?”

Phryne’s own eyes widened in delighted surprise. “Jack Robinson, I have literally never wanted anything more in my life.”

He chuckled at that, then gave a glance at the door to make sure they were still alone. 

“So,” he began slowly, “it may not surprise you to learn that when I was younger, I absolutely adored coming here.”

“Oh no, I’m utterly _shocked_ ,” Phryne teased, even as her heart fluttered a little at the idea of a tiny, wide-eyed Jack Robinson discovering the wonders of such a place for the first time.

Jack shook his head at her cheek. “Yes, well I did. Anytime I had a free moment, I’d be here. All day in the summers if my mother didn’t need me.” He sighed. “And therein began the troubles.”

“Troubles?”

“A new afternoon guard came to work here when I was 14.”

“Ah. The congenial Mr Mills, I presume?”

“Correct,” Jack confirmed. “Didn’t like children. Hated teenage boys. And I was a teenage boy. And, as such, when I would stay here all day reading, I would get quite hungry, you know, as teenage boys do.”

“And sometimes grown-up inspectors,” she teased.

He shook his head good-naturedly at her interruption. “ _Anyway,_ ” he continued,“as you know, food and drink aren’t allowed in here, so in the afternoons I would eventually have to leave to get a snack at one of the carts. And whenever Mills was on duty — which he usually was by then — he… well he wouldn’t let me back in.”

“What?”

“He’d make up any number of excuses. I was too noisy, too disrespectful, too dirty — really any ridiculous thing you could think of. Sometimes he’d just say ‘no’ and point for me to leave. It was… frustrating.”

“How awful!” Phryne exclaimed, her mind briefly wandering to Jane and what she would do to any fool that tried to keep her daughter from her beloved library. 

Jack nodded. “Yes, I agreed. But I was also 14 and not about to challenge an authority figure. Well…” he paused, and there was that air of mischievousness again, “not at first.”

“Oh? What did you do?” Phryne asked, her chin by now resting heavily on her hand.

“I smuggled in a lunch. Usually a sandwich and some biscuits. Always something dry I could easily tidy up,” he assured her quickly. “I would never have put the books at risk.”

“Of course not,” Phryne concurred solemnly. “But how did you get it past Mr Mills?”

Jack looked at her for a long moment, but then, instead of answering her, he turned slightly to look out at the Domed Reading Room, an expression akin to wonder blooming on his handsome face. “Do you know what I’ve always loved about books, Phryne?”

“No,” she replied quietly, charmed by his obvious reverence. “Tell me.”

“They are... everything. _Contain_ everything. The collective wisdom and humour and stupidity and cruelty and kindness of the human race — you can find all of it in a civilization's books. I love that. I spend so much of my life searching. For motives, for reasons, for answers… and to be able to _find them_ , to know if you have the time and the patience and the desire, all the answers are there.” He gave a wry chuckle. “Even if some of the answers are just more questions.” 

He turned back to her. “I think I have... a curiosity for life, Phryne. Something I believe we share,” he added softly, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

“I believe we do, Jack,” she replied, charmed once again.

Really Jack Robinson in his element was a dangerous thing.

She shook her head to clear it and return to the subject at hand. “But lovely words and shared passions won’t get you off the hook, mister. I asked you where you hid your contraband.”

The wonder on his face morphed into roguishness and Jack grinned - really, truly grinned - and Phryne decided right then and there that either they were never coming back to the library again or she was building a replica in her boudoir immediately. Or both.

“Oh, but Phryne,” he insisted. “I told you.”

He glanced back at the door to make sure no one was around, then reached over for his briefcase. He opened it up and took out one of the notebooks Mr Mills had picked up and dismissed earlier. Then, with great care, Jack fiddled with the side and the book swung open, revealing a compartment containing a sandwich and some biscuits wrapped in butcher’s paper with two napkins tucked beside them.

“Books,” Jack reminded her, “contain _everything_.”

Phryne cackled — loud enough that Jack was clearly worried it would draw attention and briefly covered his loot before deciding they were safe — and then pulled Jack in for a kiss, time and place and propriety be damned.

“Jack Robinson, I love you,” she reminded him after a moment, returning to her seat when they were through. “And as it happens I am absolutely famished.”

“Good,” he said, though she wasn’t exactly sure which statement he was replying to. “I just happen to have something else we can share.” He moved the napkins to the table and put each sandwich half on one. “As you may have guessed, Mills always suspected this was what I was doing when I stopped leaving in the afternoons, and he tried to prove it right up until I enlisted, but he never could. And now… now I bring one back every time I come,” he explained as he plated their illicit meal. “I don’t really know why — I’ve not needed to for practical reasons in well over a decade.”

“There's no statute of limitations on abuse of power,” Phryne conjectured. “Or how good it feels sticking it to a bully.”

Jack swayed his head slightly in consideration as he handed her half the sandwich, of which she immediately took a bite. “Ham, cheese and mustard pickle,” she noted cheerfully. 

“A particular favourite,” he reminded her and she nodded. 

“And today it rather tastes like justice,” she decided with a smile and Jack chuckled, biting into his half of the sandwich with relish.

She watched him then, and her heart fluttered once more. He looked suddenly young in the moment, how she imagined he must have been at fourteen — curious and industrious and just deciding for himself what was fair. But even so, the man across from her was still _Jack_. Her Jack. And to know he hadn’t lost all that in the intervening years, in the war or his marriage or his job, even though it would have been so easy to do so, even if _he_ thought he had. To know that he’d held onto himself enough to still be curious and industrious and deciding for himself what was fair. What was just. 

It was glorious.

“What?” he asked after a minute, suddenly self conscious of her attention.

“Oh, just thinking about the noises you're making over that sandwich and deciding whether or not I should be jealous,” she lied; his memories did not need her analysis and she would not alter this source of happiness for him for the world.

In response, Jack smiled lasciviously at her, gratuitously and purposefully wiping the corner of his mouth with his thumb as he did.

“Don’t be jealous, Miss Fisher,” he told her with a nod back toward the Reading Room. “Books contain everything, remember? And I believe there are a few here from the Far East we could peruse before we leave. If you’re interested,” he added with mock uncertainty.

She was of course.

Of course she was.

And she was absolutely building that replica. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my darling Bluecityrose, who asked for 'Jack, in the library, smuggled'.
> 
> The State Library Victoria (formerly Melbourne Public Library)'s La Trobe Reading Room (formerly the Doomed Reading Room) [is real and it is gorgeous.](https://www.slv.vic.gov.au/visit/our-magnificent-spaces/la-trobe-reading-room)


	7. Covet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wasn't the previous chapter just the most charming ever???  
> Aurora and her magic, am I right???
> 
> What I have for you today is...different.  
> Good luck :)
> 
> xx  
> Arlome

There’s something very peaceful about the circus, she finds. 

It’s a certain freedom that comes with existing on the fringes of society, the ability to draw on a different face and lead another life; it’s having the privilege of being unencumbered by the laws of any institution, religious or secular - of having no regard for propriety or censure. 

She’s often been envious of that tranquillity. 

Saul used to tease her mercilessly about it as they lay entwined in bed, drunk on intimacy and spirits, gorged on secret love. He’d kiss her neck, her mouth, plant his lips in the valley of her breasts, and murmur words that made her stomach coil and flip.

“Meine tayere,” he’d sigh against her skin, and she’d feel the teeth of his wide smile and shiver. “Why would we want to be  anyone but who we are ?”

She had her reason then, for coveting that freedom, as she does now; she prays for tranquillity to a God that was never hers. It feels like the last connection she has left to a man that was larger and brighter than any star in the Southern Cross; a clever, thinking man, with enough willpower to revive a buried dream. 

Oh, how she misses him still. She doubts she’ll ever stop.

There’s something very peaceful about the circus, she finds. 

‘ _ Thou shalt not covet _ ’, says the Tenth Commandment. 

But she does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For minne-my, who wanted "Miss Lee, circus, peaceful." Hopefully, I didn't screw it up!
> 
> Meine tayere - my dear/my darling (Yiddish)


	8. London

Jack had never been to London before. The last time he’d been in Europe there’d been very little time for sightseeing, and besides he’d adopted a very “fuck London” attitude while he was there. London was home to the War Office, and all the pompous men in their pompous suites who had treated him and his mates like pawns in a chess match — useful enough to advance but quite easily sacrificed. It hadn’t seemed worth a visit then or in all the intervening years after; really, what could London possibly hold for a man like him?

The answer, of course, was Phryne. 

Walking the streets, meeting the people, taking it in — he could practically see her fingerprints on all of it. Or maybe London had left its mark on her; in his present state he couldn’t be bothered to make the distinction. In truth the influence probably went both ways. The glamorous overtones and grittier roots. The intersections of people and interests. The thrum and the discord. The motion. The constant, _constant_ motion. 

He could see her reflection in every shop mirror and retrace her steps into every disreputable club. Smell her perfume in the air and hear the clack of her heels on the pavement. In London she was _everywhere_. 

The irony, of course, was that she wasn’t. And despite the indelible impression that she’d undoubtedly left on the city, and that it had left on her, she never would be again. 

The tears were once more threatening, so Jack closed his eyes tight to stave them off, stuffed the eulogy he’d written and photograph he’d stolen into his coat pocket, and hailed a cab. It wouldn’t do to be late today. And he was lucky, he supposed, because one arrived right away. He would say that for the city, there was always a way around.

But he’d been right before. 

Fuck London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Jobeth2714 who asked for “Phryne, London, irony” and to whom I AM SO SORRY! 😂 Sometimes, despite a good talking to, the brain just goes where it wants with prompts. But it's ok, because we all know how this particular story ends anyway — in a desert tent next to two presumably traumatized camels. It's _fine_. 
> 
> Also, I can guarantee the next one will be happy! Well, my next one anyway. Arlome is not to be trusted. 😉😂😘


	9. Growth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, after we've all cried with Jack last night, I present to you my mediocre attempts at sexual innuendo.
> 
> Enjoy, my lovelies.
> 
> xx  
> Arlome

Phryne Fisher likes seeing Jack Robinson in her home

She likes how he fits in her foyer - hat and coat and all - relishes how he leans against her furniture, one elbow on the mantelpiece, holding a glass of something as intoxicating as the picture he presents. She revels in how he belongs in her dining room, and kitchen, and parlour - present, and steady and  _ Jack _ . She certainly wouldn't mind him lounging in her bed, as well.

Which is why, when - sitting in her parlour after yet another successfully solved case - he glances out her window and casually says “your rose bush could do with some trimming”, she senses an opportunity.

"You're welcome to my bush, Jack," she replies, eyes sparkling under his semi-admonishing gaze. "Do what you will with it."

She employs a gardener, of course - he's been by to plant some petunias two days ago - but the thought of having Jack Robinson puttering away in the fertile soil of her garden is simply too much to resist.

He looks at her with that tilt of the head and quirk of the lips that tells her that he’s more amused than he lets on.

“I’ll take you up on that,” he says simply, and takes a sip of whisky, holding her gaze all the while.

She delights at the ambiguity of his response. 

* * *

He decides to take her up on the offer a few days later, at a sinfully early hour on a Saturday morning. 

“The Inspector is here, Miss,” Dot whispers when she carefully looks into the dark bedroom. “He says he’s here to trim your bush…?”

Phryne nearly falls out of bed in her haste to get ready. 

She finds him in the kitchen, drinking tea and eating toast, sharing his opinion on Collingwood’s chances to win the cup this year, with Mr Butler. The ease of his posture, the confidence of his speech, the way he treats her staff - friendly, respectfully, as equals - it all sits in her belly and twists in the most pleasant of ways. 

“Morning, Jack, Mr Butler,” she announces as jovially as she can, considering the abominable hour.

“Miss,” her butler smiles pleasantly and turns back to the stove and his cooking. Phryne inhales the mouth-watering aroma of eggs and fresh bread with evident delight.

Jack jumps from his seat to pull her chair out for her, and she finds herself delighting in something other than the possibility of food.

He’s a sight for sore eyes in a cotton shirt and moleskin trousers, his braces outlining the almost impossible breadth of his shoulders. His shirt collar is unbuttoned, there’s no tie in sight, and the hollow of his throat - so close and yet so out of reach - tantalises her with its almost illicit appearance. She's never seen him dressed so informally before. 

“Morning, Miss Fisher,” he rumbles, tilting his head just so.

“Surely you mean ‘the crack of dawn’, Inspector,” she replies dramatically and crosses her arms, more for the sake of his amusement than anything else.

It works. He chuckles deeply and shakes his head. 

“Only you would call eight-in-the-morning ‘the crack of dawn’, Miss Fisher,” he admonishes her almost teasingly, and Phryne sends him a brilliant smile in return. 

When she doesn’t make use of the chair he’s so gallantly pulled out for her, he furrows his brow in mild confusion. “Aren’t you sitting down to breakfast?”

“And miss seeing you as anything less than buttoned-up?” she cries, picking up a piece of toast and buttering it generously. “Not a chance! Mr Butler, I’ll take tea in the garden, if you’d be so kind.”

“Very good, Miss.”

She turns to Jack and waves her toast in the direction of the foyer. “Lead on, Inspector!”

He makes a nondescript sound in the back of his throat and narrows his eyes, before giving her one nod and stepping out of the kitchen. Phryne catches Mr Butler’s glance and winks.

“Lemonade and sandwiches for our amateur gardener, Mr B?”

“Right away, Miss.”

* * *

She watches him work and sweat with avid interest, her eyes shining behind her sunglasses. Her cup of tea sits before her on the little round table still half-full, though it’s been at least thirty minutes since it’s gone stone cold.

The sight of Jack kneeling on the earth, fingers deep in the soil, is sure to fuel her fantasies for the foreseeable future, and she finds herself sighing a little at a glimpse of his bare forearms. 

Phryne shakes her head in dawning horror. She’s finally lost it. He’s made her into a Victorian.

Jack lifts his face to smile at her, and all her trepidations about prudish historical eras are suddenly dead and buried.

“Not much longer, Miss Fisher, I’m nearly done!” he calls out, and his voice rings deep and clear and goes straight to her belly.

_ Shame,  _ she thinks petulantly. Better find another reason for him to stay, looking like that. Perhaps there’s a switch that needs fixing?

If there’s not, she can always -

“Take your time, Inspector!” she replies, silencing the naughty little voices before they gain the upper hand. She doesn’t need to sabotage her own household to keep Jack a while longer - she’ll just offer him whisky. “I’m in no hurry.”

“You’re not bored?” he asks, surprised, and wipes his fingers on a checkered cloth that he threw over his shoulder.

“Very far from it, Inspector,” she smiles widely. “I find myself thoroughly engaged!”

Jack shoots her a mock-stern look and commences to towel off his sweaty hair and nape. 

Phryne downs the remains of her cold tea to cool off. 

A few minutes later he joins her with clean hands and flushed cheeks. She shoves a plate full of sandwiches in his direction, which he gratefully accepts. The appreciative sounds he’s making as he takes a large bite will probably haunt her to her dying day.

“So, Jack, what’s the verdict?” She asks, when he’s done eating, her eyes glinting and dangerous. “Does my bush meet your approval at last?”

His lips quirk at her innuendo and he tilts his head in the direction of the greenery in question.

“This one does.”

Oh, but she adores him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For tara-stofse, who asked for "Jack, Wardlow's garden, confused".


	10. Later

Phryne Fisher has very nice knees.

It is, perhaps, an odd thing to focus on in light of her many other lovely features, but Jack has always been a details man and so he takes note of her uncommonly becoming knees early in their acquaintance. And then, throughout the course of their evolving relationship, they keep popping up, mostly as a distraction when he should be focused on policework and not patellas.

“You didn’t see that,” she says, but of course he has.

And he keeps right on seeing them.

The worst, he thinks, is probably in Queenscliff, her bathing costume the greater distraction, of course, but her knees running a very close second. Jack finds that dagger a full minute before Collins retrieves it, but chooses to remain in the cool water for reasons of his own.

He does have trouble though, later, recalling when exactly he saw them first. A bathhouse? A jazz club? He knows he’s seen them before the incident with the anarchists because by then he is equally as intrigued by the shape of them as by how practiced she is at tending them when injured.

But of course she is.

Because later, much later, when he has the privilege of seeing them up close, he realizes that the raised marks from that day are just recent additions to the constellation of scars upon her knees. She’d probably spent her entire childhood with them both scraped to hell, and never dropped the habit. But it also makes sense, to him, that she has fallen so much; Jack would frankly be surprised to learn that she hadn’t.

Phryne Fisher always runs full speed ahead and sometimes the world can’t keep up with her.

And so she is a woman who has fallen before. Fallen and fallen and fallen again and every time she has gotten back up, dusted herself off, and kept right on running.

And that, Jack realizes — later, much later, when he is kissing her knees whilst worshipping her upon his own — is why he loves them so much. Why he loves _her_ so much.

She tumbles back a little as his lips graze the sensitive skin on her lower thigh.

“Why Jack, I seem to be weak in the knees for you,” she teases breathlessly and he laughs, a puff of air across her belly that only makes her tremble more.

“You’ve never been weak for anything, Miss Fisher,” he reminds her as he resumes his attentions. “And besides,” he notes with a quick nod down to his current position, “I am the one who appears to have fallen.”

Fallen and fallen and fallen again.

She laughs until she quite suddenly stops, because now they have both moved past her knees.

Later, much later, when they are sated and sleepy and entwined like vines in her bed, she takes his hand in her own, stroking the palm softly with her thumb.

“You have very nice hands,” she says, and he snorts, assuming she is referring to their very recently demonstrated skills.

“I mean they’re pretty,” she clarifies through a yawn.

“They’re calloused,” he murmurs, snuggling deeper into the pillows.

“Of course they are,” she replies, snuggling deeper into him. “You’re a man who digs for the truth. You dig and dig and dig and you don’t stop until you find it.” She must sense his skepticism because she defends her assertion even as she drowsily closes her eyes. “It makes sense if you think about it.”

Jack doesn’t.

Instead, he puts his hand on her knee and falls asleep, deciding to explore any deeper implications at another time.

Later.

Much later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the kind Whopooh who(pooh) asked for "Jack – on the beach – knee." Hopefully that was enough beach for you, my dear. 😉😂


	11. Bathers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now for something completely different:

When on the sands of Queenscliff's shore,

she first beheld his solid thighs,

there was no doubt that so much more

of him would please her sultry eyes.

Those arms, that chest, those bathers wet, 

oh what a feast for ailing sight!

If only she could somehow get

the man unbuttoned for one night!

But men of honour are the worst - 

or best - 

depends on how you take your glass, 

and even if she felt she'd burst

she'd borne it with the greatest class. 

And yet, she had her limits, too

so the conspiracy was born. 

She knew exactly what to do, 

to catch a glimpse of bathers-porn

It took her months and many trials

but she was patient and steadfast.

The countless nightcaps, chases, files

did get her to her goal, at last

One midday fair, after a case,

a game of tennis at her Aunt's,

"Inspector, how about a race?" 

she winked, and offered as a taunt. 

He stood bemused until she grinned 

and stripped down to her stockings white.

His eyes caressed her powdered skin,

his breathing hitching at the sight. 

"A race, Miss Fisher?" so he asked, 

his voice as low as oceans deep

"The pool, Jack! Come, whoever's last, 

will have some penalties to reap!" 

He caught her wrist before she fled

and pulled her right into his arms.

And thus they stood, with nothing said

but that, too, had its many charms. 

But tender idyll never lingers

and with a wicked, playful grin, 

she pulled on his complaint fingers

and reacquainted him with sin.

He gladly followed - pool, then bed,

Oh, how delightful to be led. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the lovely Lechatnoir1918 who asked for "Jack, swimming pool, conspiracy." Hope this fits the bill, love!


	12. Cozy

“You’re a lunatic.”

“Bert…”

“A bloody lunatic.”

“ _Bert_.”

“A bloody henpecked fool of a lunatic.”

Cec sighed. “Well which is it?” he asked.

Bert frowned at the question, the cigarette in his mouth dangling just a little lower as he did. “Which is what?”

“Am I a henpecked fool or a lunatic?”

“One don’t necessarily exclude the other.”

“Yes, it does. Either we’re here because Alice has me henpecked or we’re here because I’m plain outta my mind. Can’t be both.”

“Oh it can. Ya know how I know? Cuz it is. And you know what else?” The cigarette was precariously close to falling out entirely now. “I think you enjoy both.”

Cec rolled his eyes and settled back in his seat. “You coulda waited in the cab, you know,” he offered, not bothering to look at his partner.

“It’s cold in the cab,” Bert mumbled. He was slouching pretty severely in his seat but as the curtain to the back of the shop twitched, and the proprietor appeared, he sat up a touch straighter. Cec, though, stood completely and rushed over to the counter.

“So sorry for the delay, Mr Yates, but we’re all set.” She handed one small bundle back to Cec and placed another on the counter. “Shall I just wrap it up then?”

“Yes m’am, thank you.” Cec waited by the counter as she did, his arms cradling a tiny, gray kitten.

“Quite an unusual order,” the dressmaker noted with a smile. “Not every day I make knitwear for a cat. What’s her name?”

“She doesn’t have one yet,” Cec explained. “Too new. She’s a, uh, a stray. But she doesn’t realize she’s a house cat now. Keeps wandering out and half freezing to death. Figured this way at least she’ll be warm when she goes walkabout.”

“And your wife couldn’t handle the sewing?” she asked as she wrapped the tiny sweaters in paper. 

“She’s, uh,” Cec rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, “she’s expecting our first. Figured this was one less thing for her to worry about.”

The woman looked up in surprise. “Oh. Well that’s lovely. You know what — no charge.” She handed the packets to Cec and raised her arms to stop the argument he was obviously about to make. “Truly. Besides any friend of Dottie’s is a friend of mine.” 

With one last pat to the kitten she disappeared once more into the back of the shop, effectively ending the discussion, and Cec turned to find Bert staring at him. 

“Don’t start,” Cec warned, walking towards the door. He stopped just in front though, his arms too full to open it. With a glance towards Bert, he shrugged. 

“You want the kitten or the kitten’s kit?” he asked with a barely suppressed smile. 

Bert glared at him, but took the bundle of impossibly small sweaters all the same. Together they walked to the cab, where Bert threw the paper package unceremoniously in the back and then slid behind the wheel as Cec cradled the kitten beside him. 

“You didn’t mention she was a friend of Dottie’s,” Bert noted as they pulled away from the kerb. 

“Does that change your mind at all?” Cec asked with a grin. “Bet you’re glad you didn’t call _her_ a lunatic, be in a world of trouble the next time we’re at Miss Fisher’s.” Bert grunted and Cec laughed. “You know what — of the two of us, I think you’re the one who’s henpecked.”

“Naw, that’s just self preservation. You don’t get henpecked by Dottie Collins,” Bert corrected. “You get bit. She’s a bloody Rottweiler, she is, and a sane man avoids a pecking of any kind from one of those.”

Cec laughed again and soon Bert was chuckling under his breath with him as well. They drove in companionable silence for a few minutes until the kitten meowed loudly, startling Bert, who grumbled again at her being in the cab. 

“You still owe me for this,” Bert insisted, though Cec looked dubious. “And I just thought of a way you can settle up.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You could name the baby after me. Albert’s a good, strong name.”

Cec’s skeptical expression transformed into a sly one. 

“How about we name the kitten after you instead?”

Bert stared unamused ahead as beside him Cec laughed loudly and the kitten who would soon be known as Bertie Yates mewed softly in agreement and then promptly fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the lovely Bluecityrose, who asked for “Bert and Cec, in a dressmaker’s shop, kitten”.
> 
> I know, I know... fluffy _and_ cracky? In this economy?? You're welcome. 😂


	13. Hoodwinked

He’s furious. Goddamn livid, really.

He’s ire, he’s fury, he’s rage, he’s…. running out of nouns.

The gritting of his teeth is almost loud enough to drown the pounding of blood in his ears. There’s fire in his veins, gunpowder in his chest - he’s at the very limit of his patience, on the very edge of his legendary self-control.

He bursts through the door to his house, doffing his hat unceremoniously, shrugging out of his coat aggressively; if he can’t take out his outraged anger on Russell Street, he might as well do it on his innocent garments.

How dare they? How  _ dare  _ they dictate -

“Jack?”

The sound of her voice has the same effect as ice cubes sliding down his collar. He pauses for a few seconds and stares at the pegs on his foyer wall. There’s her elegant throw, her fashionable hat; signs of domesticity that make his chest cave in. He wasn’t expecting her to be in his parlour tonight.

“Miss Fisher,” he growls in greeting, momentarily distracted by her presence.

“I wanted to surprise you - Jack, what’s wrong?” 

He’s still too angry to speak, still too livid to appreciate her lovely gesture - there’s very little he enjoys more than these sudden surprises - so he keeps his back to her and balls his shaking hands into fists. She shouldn’t have to see this side of him. This ugly, grotesque reaction. 

The feel of her soft breasts against his stiff back, the pressure of her arms around his waist - the breath leaves his lungs in a shaky sigh, his caved-in rib cage expanding. Even through the wool of his jacket, he can feel the fleeting kiss of her lips between his shoulder blades.

“What happened, darling?”

Her voice is muffled by the heavy fabric, but despite the cloth barrier, he can tell that she’s worried. His eyes squeeze shut in rapidly dawning shame; he doesn’t want to be the cause of her unhappiness, doesn’t wish to leave her troubled on his behalf. There should only be joy between them - even in anguish - now and always. 

In an act of concession, he brings one of her hands to his mouth. Her fingers are warm against his cool, dry lips. 

“I’ve been summoned to the Chief Commissioner’s office today; been called to attention,” he sighs, pressing her hand to his heart. “Russell Street… they take issue with.. with our  _ arrangement _ .”

“Oh, Jack.”

He turns in her arms and palms her shoulders, pulling her closer. There’s a furrow in her brow that makes his heart stutter and his belly ache.

“I don’t care, Phryne,” he groans determinedly, his fingers flexing against her bare skin. She’s wearing the loveliest sleeveless dress he’s ever laid eyes on, the straps a vivid blue over powered arms. If only he could just slide one of them off her shoulder, kiss her there, and bury himself in her until the end of days.

Her hands come to rest on his waistcoat.

“Jack, wait - ”

“No, Phryne,” he pleads with her, the urgency in his voice startling him to his core. “It’s none of their business, they can’t dictate my - ”

Her hand against his cheek is cool and soft, her lips on his jaw are hot and moist. She presses closer into his body.

“I think they can, Jack,” she sighs, smiling regretfully. “You are a public servant, darling, and, therefore, must be without blemish.”

Lead settles deep in his gut. Ice gathers at the edges of his lungs. Surely -  _ surely  _ \- she cannot possibly mean to….

“Blemish?” he asks, dreading the meaning behind her words. A quick glance into her eyes confirms his fears. “Phryne, no…”

Her fingers trace his cheekbone lovingly as if trying to memorise the topography of his face.

“We cannot continue like this, Jack,” she sighs and brushes the soft hair at the nape of his neck. His breath catches painfully in his throat.

“Phryne, please,” he implores, not caring one jot for how desperate he might sound at the moment, “not like this.”

She shakes her head, kisses his eyelids, his eyebrows, the tip of his nose.

“I can’t be the reason you lose your job, Jack. I will not cost you your career over such a trivial matter. Not when it can be easily solved!” She declares, her entire demeanor changing from regretful to cheerful in a span of a second. 

This admission - and the easy way in which it is delivered - shocks him to his bones and sends him reeling. His head starts spinning at the sudden change of gears, eyes clouding over with uncertainty. She’s one step ahead of him most days, but tonight she’s running so fast that he’s falling behind, bruising his knees as he goes.

Phryne throws her arms around his neck and kisses him soundly. 

“I...I don’t understand,” he mutters feebly between kisses. He can feel Phryne’s lips curving against his jaw.

“It’s quite easy, really _ ,” _ she explains and bites his chin, “we just have to stop presenting such an  _ unconventional  _ front.”

This does nothing to alleviate the reeling of his mind, or the feeling of being so dreadfully off kilter. The truth is, he’s tired, and hungry, and still harbours some residual anger deep in his belly. If only she’d just explain herself properly - 

“And how do you propose we’d do that?” he asks, closing his eyes.

He feels her chuckle against the skin of his throat, senses the pressure of her palms on his shoulders. And suddenly, he’s on his knees before her, looking up into her downturned face.

“Funny you should use this specific word,” she smiles a little impishly, and runs her fingers over his cheeks fondly.

He almost sways on the spot at her implication. Well, she’s definitely explained herself  _ now _ .

“Phryne…” he mutters, but she shakes her head and threads her fingers through his loosening hair and tugs a little painfully.

“Don’t get over-excited, Inspector. I’m proposing a fake, indefinite engagement, not marriage. It has the benefit of pleasing everyone without forcing us to - ”

“Yes,” he interrupts her and kisses whatever parts of her he can reach. His mind’s clear again, all levers shifting into their proper positions. His equilibrium moves to recalibrate itself; he’s still a little knocked about, but he’ll pull through. She’ll help.

“Oh, Jack,” she sighs, interrupting this episode of sudden clarity and bringing him back to the moment. “Are you very disappointed?”

He understands immediately what it is she’s asking, and he finds that he isn’t. Not in the slightest. He doesn’t need a certificate to know what they mean to each other.

“No,” he assures her, smiling for the first time in hours. “Not at all.”

Her eyes turn impish at his confidence, and she pushes on his shoulder again until he’s leaning back on his heels. 

“Well, Inspector,” she coos, “as long as you’re down there…”

Jack very purposely does not raise one of his knees, but he does reach for her hand.

“Help me hoodwink the entire Melbourne society by not actually marrying me, Miss Fisher?” 

Her eyes are shining with mirth, and her lips curve into the largest smile he’s ever seen her display. She’s enjoying this little case she’s created, revels in the smoke and mirrors of it all. And he loves her for it all - by God, he does - even if nine times out of ten those little schemes of hers give him grief. He wouldn’t have her any other way, fake engaged or no.

She leans closer to him, her teeth gleaming in the soft light of his parlour, her eyes landing on his slightly parted mouth.

“Oh, Inspector; I thought you’d never ask!”

Perhaps the talking-to at Russell Street wasn’t so terrible, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the brilliant Whopooh who requested 'Jack, Russell Street, attention' and got this rubbish, instead.   
> I'm sorry, darling. I promise your next prompt will be better!


	14. Thinking

“Miss Fisher.”

“Jack.”

“Well.”

“Yes, well.”

“I must admit, when Collins said you’d gotten yourself into a spot of trouble, this is not what I had in mind.”

“I believe that says more about your lack of imagination than anything else, Jack.”

“Of course. If I may ask, though, what were you thinking?”

“That this is how Lechner got off the train.”

“And?”

“... that the window was larger.”

“Mmmmm.”

“...”

“...”

“So are you just going to stand there or are you going to help me?”

“...”

“Jack?”

“I’m thinking.”

“Oof!”

“Miss Fisher, did you just try to _kick me_?”

“Apparently with no success. Take a step towards me and let’s try it again.”

“Uh, no thanks. Have you... have you tried wriggling?”

“I’ve tried nothing else for the last twenty minutes. I’m afraid another set of hands is needed to get the job done, which, in my experience, can sometimes be the case.”

“...”

“Oh Jack, don’t give me that disapproving scowl.”

“How do you — you can’t see me.”

“I can hear you.”

“You can hear me scowling?”

“It’s a very loud scowl. Now can you help me, please?”

“I _can_... just not sure I _should_.”

“What? Why?”

“Well it occurs to me that this is a very unique situation. You’ve effectively made it impossible for you to further interfere with my crime scene. Perhaps I should take advantage of the opportunity and leave you to your own devices.”

“Oof!!”

“Still too far away to make contact with my shin, Miss Fisher, but you keep trying.”

“Jaaaaaack. Please. This is very uncomfortable.”

“Yes, yes of course. Hold on…”

“Well? What are you waiting for?”

“I’m trying to figure out how to do this.”

“What’s to think about, Jack? You grab me and pull.”

“Yes, but you’re... well you’re in a rather, specific, position, and I’m afraid to get any leverage I’ll have to get behind you which will leave us both in an even more…”

“Specific position?”

“Yes.”

“Well too bad.”

“Miss Fisher — ”

“Look, Jack, I obviously can’t see but I assume you’re wearing your usual 400 articles of clothing, correct?”

“I’m dressed appropriately, yes.”

“Please, Russian nesting dolls have less layers.”

“Do you want my help or not?”

“Don’t be cross, Jack. My point is that it will be very difficult for anything untoward to happen with us both fully clothed and the train not even moving. Don’t roll your eyes.”

“How — ”

“It’s a very loud roll. Now are you going to help me or not?”

“Yes, yes, hold still.”

“Really not a problem, Jack.”

“Alright, Miss Fisher, on three. One, two thre — ”

“Ooooooof! Oh, dear, I seem to have landed on your — ”

“Yes, you — ”

“So sorry, Jack.”

“It’s... that’s fine. But you’re alright?”

“Yes, Jack. Very sweet of you to ask, but I’m right as rain.”

“Ah. Good. That’s good.”

“It is.”

“You can, uh, you can probably stop wriggling now.”

“I _can,_ Jack. But should I?”

“...”

“...”

“I’m thinking.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my other lovely partner in crime, Lechatnoir1918, who asked for "Phryne, train, wriggle." 
> 
> ...NGL, this feels very illustratable, babe. 😂


	15. Show and Tell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wasn't yesterday's entry the funniest thing in the world???
> 
> Of course it was!
> 
> Hope this one makes you giggle, as well!
> 
> xx  
> Arlome

She storms his office like the goddamn Roman army, hell-bent on world conquest and border expansion. 

He doesn’t get much of a warning before she sails into his waters, her flag flying high in the form of a lovely silk scarf. The Pirate Girl of Collingwood, here to board his vessel. 

Now there’s an image he could do without during office hours. 

“Well, cough up, Inspector,” she demands, dropping into the opposite chair with an elegant huff. “Is it bigger than mine?”

He turns another page in the report he’s been pretending to read ever since she barged in,  and clears his throat . “I’ve no idea. I’ve never seen yours.”

There’s something perversely satisfying in riling her up, in pulling on her braids, and gently pressing on her buttons. Suits her right, for all the times she’s flustered him. 

She snatches the file from under his nose, forcing him to level an unimpressed  look at her . 

“Oh, what rot, Jack Robinson,” she cries, now truly somewhat miffed at being thusly led. He tries not to crow in triumph. ”Of course you have!”

He leans back in his chair and folds his hands over his stomach, quirking an eyebrow in her direction. 

“You forget, Miss Fisher,” he admonishes her smugly, “it’s your Columbian emeralds I’m familiar with, not your Australian rubies.” 

Something changes in her face at his admission and she leans forwards, smiling almost fiendishly. 

“We must remedy that immediately, then,” she murmurs, and his treacherous stomach flips pleasantly at the sound. 

But two can play this game,  and he’s far from being beaten.

“Are you wooing me for information, Miss Fisher?” he throws at her, in hopes that she’ll recognise her own taunt from a few months back. From the delighted spark in her eyes, and the way she slides a little closer to the edge of her seat, he’d wager she does. 

“It depends, Inspector,” she murmurs, her ox-blood lips stretching in a wide smile. “Is it working?”

He’s not about to tell her to spare her coquettish charms; he’s more than happy to share the ‘wealth’, as always, but this is definitely more fun. 

Fun. Who’d have thought that he was still capable of having  _ that _ _.  _ The Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher has definitely rubbed off on him.

Now  _ there’s  _ another disruptive image… 

He blinks slowly at her expectant smile, she arches an eyebrow; it’s a battle of facial expressions. One that he forfeits rather benevolently by rising from his chair and tilting his head in the direction of his back door. She surges from her seat to follow without a word. 

They head to the interview room, descend the stairs, and move past the cells. When they reach the heavy door to the evidence lockup, he feels, rather than hears, her excited gasp. 

“I’ve never been here before,” she whispers gleefully, right by his ear. 

He takes a step forward to unlock the door.

“First time for everything,” he quips, and motions her inside, trying not to shiver when she deliberately brushes up against his body on the way in. 

She oohs and aahs at the laden shelves of stolen goods and murder weapons, fleeting from shelf to shelf like an eager child in a candy shop. He looks on fondly, admiring her spirit and her ability to find joy and excitement in the grimmest of subjects. She’s unbreakable, unbendable, unbound. 

She turns to him, grinning openly, and his heart stutters.

“Well, Jack,” she prods, her entire countenance flushed with the thrill of the chase, “are you going to show me your little bauble?” 

He tilts his head just so and tries to suppress a smile. Only she can call a sizable ruby - one which led to the death of three people - a ‘little bauble’. 

“I’d hardly call it ‘little’, Miss Fisher,” he admonishes her, managing a straight face. 

She laughs at that, and reaches for the box he happened to pull down from one of the shelves while she was busy ‘window shopping’. He hands it to her with very little resistance, revelling in the look of triumph on her face as she flips the lid open and whistles, wide-eyed, at what she spies inside.

“So it  _ was  _ found in the warehouse, after all,” she murmurs appreciatively, her facial expression just on the right side of smug.

He’d be astonished at the accuracy of her information if he wasn’t so very well acquainted with the woman. 

“I’d ask how you knew, but I have a growing suspicion I’d rather be kept in the dark on that front,” he says simply, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

She smiles at him slyly and closes the lid, placing the box back on the shelf where it belongs.

“Let’s just say I have my sources.”

Deed done, curiosity sated, she takes a step closer to him, her gloved hand reaching to his tie. Months ago, he had foregone his natural preference for the Windsor knot in favour of the slightly asymmetrical style of the Four in Hand, just so she’d have an excuse to fiddle with the thing. Not that he’d ever tell her that. In any case, he suspects she knows.

“Supper at mine, Jack?” she purrs, fixing the knot with expert fingers. “Mr Butler will be making his famous gratin…”

“How can I refuse, Miss Fisher?” he rumbles, not moving an inch.

She smiles at his acquiescence and moves to leave, only casting one last triumphant look in his direction at the door to the lockup.

“You can’t, Jack,” she winks and saunters out, her lovely silk scarf floating behind her like a banner.

Well, she’s got him there. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the lovely Bluecityrose, who asked for "Jack, warehouse, ruby." Hope you like it, love!


	16. Shenanigans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as a treat and because why not, Arlome and I each gave each other a prompt. And… look, we all know that of the two of us, Arlome is the poet, but in honor of her prompt I wanted to write _her_ one this time. A great iambic ode to her brilliance and skill. ❤️
> 
> But, you know, it’s me.
> 
> “Play to _your_ skill,” thought I, and, determining that to be utter ridiculousness, settled on this instead.
> 
> So I present _Shenanigans: A Story in Six Limericks_

> There once was fella named Jack,
> 
> With a birthmark for which he caught flack.
> 
> When Phryne found out,
> 
> She started to pout,
> 
> “Come on, sweetheart, show us your tack.”

> Miss Fisher then folded her arms,
> 
> Which in his mind set off all the alarms.
> 
> "We're at work!" he insisted,
> 
> As still she persisted
> 
> (the mark was near his constabulary charms!).

> Jack was feeling as flustered as Hugh,
> 
> As apprehension for her shenanigans grew.
> 
> Phryne just shrugged,
> 
> Whilst his trousers she tugged,
> 
> “I’ll just say I’m looking at your tattoo.”

> There once was an arguing Phrack,
> 
> The argument won at last by his fullback.
> 
> Supplicated as in a chapel,
> 
> She cried, “It _is_ a pineapple!”
> 
> Which is - of course - when returned Mac.

> The good doctor, you see, was on call,
> 
> And found Phryne having a, er, um, ball.
> 
> With exasperation,
> 
> At her friends' explanation,
> 
> Sighed, “if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen ‘em all.”

> There once was a saint of a surgeon,
> 
> Whose annoyance was rapidly emergin’.
> 
> She tossed ‘em out with a frown,
> 
> Though his pants were still down,
> 
> Then poured herself an extra large bourbon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my darling Arlome who asked for "Phryne, morgue, pineapple". Thank you so much for agreeing to this mad, reckless plan before you had the good sense to actually think it through. 😂


	17. The Trouble With White Lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sequel to prompt no' 3.
> 
> xx  
> Arlome

“Mother has given me her grandmother’s ring,” Phryne declares one morning at breakfast, splaying the fingers of her left hand in front of his face. Sure enough, there’s a delicate golden band on her fourth finger, the slightly muted sapphire in the middle catching the artificial dining room light.

Jack sighs and lowers his fork, abandoning his eggs and toast with great regret. 

“I thought we were through with this charade, Miss Fisher,” he mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Didn’t you tell your mother that it’s all a big misunderstanding?”

When he glances up at her expectantly, he’s somewhat astonished to find her looking contrite. 

“I did, but she seemed to find the whole thing far too diverting to just let it go.”

Of course she did. Like mother, like daughter. Not that he’ll ever confess to recalling that particular saying. 

“You mean to tell me she’s in on it?” he asks rather weakly, sensing a dull pain developing behind his eyes. 

He’s not at all surprised to see Phryne struggling to suppress an amused smile. 

“She is,” she confirms, the apologetic look gone. “I think she rather enjoys shocking all her very grand friends.”

Jack rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “What is it with you Fishers?” 

Phryne laughs and leans over, causing her neckline to dip lower and provide him with a spectacular view of her unbound breasts. 

“Oh, don’t be like that, Jack,” she sighs in a low, sultry voice, and places a warm hand on his thigh. “It will all blow over in a few days. Trust me, in a week, this will all be forgotten.” 

* * *

  
  


But it doesn’t, in fact, blow over. If anything, it expands to rather epic proportions. 

By Saturday, the entire affair is picked up by all self-respecting gossip columnists in the damned city and reaches every household via the society pages. The Fisher residence fills up with cards, flowers, and a substantial number of very curious, very prominent visitors who arrive to call on the proud parents.

It all culminates rather marvellously in Margaret Fisher suddenly declaring her intent to organise a party in honour of the ‘newlyweds’, causing Henry to laugh for ten minutes straight. 

Jack nearly chokes on his whisky.

Phryne is sufficiently livid at this unexpected development. She reasons and pleads - and when that proves unsuccessful - demands and threatens, but it’s no use. The party is to go ahead as planned, despite the loud protestations from the couple of the hour. 

“I truly am sorry, Jack,” Phryne whispers later that night, curled into his side like an infant. “I had no idea she’d actually go that far.”

“What is she hoping to achieve by this?” he asks tiredly, his hand drawing patterns on the small of her back. 

Phryne sighs heavily.

“I think she means to guilt us into an actual marriage,” she mutters into his shoulder, hiding her face from him.

Jack stares at the raven crown of her head, then up at the ceiling. Well, this is turning out to be quite the adventure, all things considered.

“We could just leave,” he offers, after some minutes of silence. It’s a futile notion, of course, but he could at least voice it. 

Phryne raises her head to look at him properly.

“Jack, I would, but…”

“I understand,” he says, brushing the hair from her face, cupping the line of her jaw. She doesn’t wish to embarrass her parents.

The look she bestows upon him makes his heart stutter. 

“What am I to do with you, Jack Robinson?” 

It’s not an outright confession, but it’s as good as one in his tattered book. 

His hand glides down to cup her nape. 

“I have a few ideas,” he breathes against her smiling lips.

There’s no more talking for the remainder of the night.

* * *

The party proves to be the closest thing to Hell on Earth since the war ended. 

Jack spends most of the evening dodging and fleeing unwanted encounters with countless society ladies that all suddenly seem to be incredibly interested in the finer points of Victoria’s indecent publications laws. He’s even rather successful, for the most part - keeping to the nooks and corners of the large estate, trying to be as inconspicuous as he can be - until he runs  into Mrs Shaw.

“Oh, Inspector!” she trills, sounding somewhat breathless.

“Pardon me, Mrs Shaw,” he apologises, steadying the woman’s elbow. “I hadn’t noticed you there. Are you alright?”

The woman - a tall, somewhat portly, blonde in her late forties - opens her fan with a snap and waves it about like a wand.

“No, no, Inspector, I’m perfectly well,” she simpers and places her hand on his bicep. “Please, call me Carol.”

Jack smiles politely and takes a sip from what’s left of his champagne. He’s got no intention of being on a first-name basis with this woman.

“Tell me, Jack - may I call you Jack? - do you travel with your handcuffs? Your baton? I’m sure Scotland Yard could do with a man of your… expertise.” 

With a dawning sense of dread and unease, Jack realises that the woman is yet to release his arm. 

“My, uh, handcuffs?” he all but stammers. “Er, no, no. I’m on holiday, Mrs Shaw, and Scotland Yard is capable enough to manage without the aid of an obscure Australian detective, I’m sure.”

His unwelcome companion laughs shrilly and squeezes his arm a couple of times; Jack has the distinct feeling that she’s attempting to size up his musculature. 

“Oh, Inspector!” she breathes, stepping close enough for him to smell the tart wine she’s been indulging in on her breath. “You mustn’t be so  _ modest!  _ You’re not obscure at all. I assure you, we’re all quite aware of your many…  _ charms _ .”

_ Oh God _ , thinks Jack and swallows.

“Darling, Mother would like to make a toast - oh, good evening, Mrs Shaw!”

Jack sighs in relief at the feeling of Phryne’s hand slipping through his unoccupied arm. Mrs Shaw’s expression seems to sour for a few precious seconds before she can compose herself. With quite some effort, she releases Jack’s firmly clutched limb and steps back, her face now a perfect mask of aristocratic civility. 

“Phryne, my dear girl!” she booms, smiling too widely. “Your charming husband and I were just chatting about his profession. Tell me, wherever did you find him?”

Jack doesn’t miss the way Miss Fisher presses closer to his side, doesn’t fail to notice the somewhat possessive glint to her eye. He tries - very valiantly - to not be aroused by this uncommon display of jealousy.

“In a lavatory, over a dead body. Now, if you’ll excuse us…”

When they’re out of hearing range of the poor, astonished Mrs Shaw, Jack leans close to Phryne’s ear.

“It’s not quite how it happened, Miss Fisher,” he rumbles fondly, noticing with thinly-veiled delight how she seems to shiver at the register of his voice. 

Phryne shrugs and juts her chin arrogantly. 

“No matter, Jack. I just needed to shock her sufficiently to release you from her clutches. That woman… she’s the reason we’re in this mess to begin with!”

Jack wisely keeps his thoughts to himself.

* * *

The charade continues all the way to the boat, and beyond. 

“It’s easier this way, Jack,” Phryne explains, unpacking their things and hanging them in the wardrobe of their spacious, first-class cabin. “Imagine having to sleep apart for six weeks!” 

He keeps his mouth shut and turns a page in the book he’s studiously pretending to be reading. 

“Alright, out with it.”

He glances up to find her standing with her arms akimbo, her brow furrowed in suspicion.

He shrugs. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t need to. Your thoughts were loud enough. I’m sure they heard you in Melbourne.”

Jack sighs and puts the books down, not bothering with marking the page. It’s not like he was actually reading, to begin with.

“What about home, Phryne?” he asks carefully. “What will we do when we dock? You and I both know that our nearest and dearest will not - “

“We’ll deal with it when we get there,” she dismisses his worries with a flick of her wrist. “We have six weeks to enjoy our freedom, Jack. Must you worry now?”

He must, of course, but she looks at him with such unmasked hope and imploring in her eyes, that he decides to let it go for the time being. 

“You’re right. We’ll worry about it later.”

He rises to take her in his arms. 

* * *

When she tells him she’s asked the Captain to marry them off discreetly over breakfast one morning, he nearly spits his tea. 

“ _ What _ ?” he demands, coughing.

She reaches out to thump him unceremoniously on his back.

“It's the perfect solution, Jack! Think about it, no paperwork, no lies, questionable legal standing, and it would solve all of our problems!” 

Something rattles in his chest, his throat is thick and dry; he’s fairly certain he’s got no blood left in his face.

“But - “

“In case you haven’t noticed, Jack Robinson,” she interrupts, smiling tremulously at him, “I happen to be in love with you, and I’ve decided - you’re it.”

He blinks at her, suddenly quite deliriously happy.

“Just like that?” he asks, reaching for her hand across the laden table.

She squeezes his fingers, bites her lip.

“Just like that.”

And that’s it.

* * *

They’re greeted by his parents at the docks, his mother wearing a thunderous expression. 

Jack sighs. It seems the news from London has reached Melbourne, after all.

“Well, John Benjamin Robinson,” his mother looks up at him with all the famous Jewish disappointment she could muster. From the corner of his eye, he can see his father offering him an understanding smile. “What have you got to say for yourself?”

Jack stoops down to kiss his mother, notices the tears in her eyes. She’s not upset by his choice, he knows, just by not being informed. He pulls Miss Fisher to him, snakes an arm around her waist.

“No excuse, Mama,” he smiles and she huffs, dabbing at her eyelashes with a handkerchief his father thrust into her hand. “I’d like you to meet my wife, apparently. You remember Phryne?”

His mother beams. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a-wonderingmind, who asked for "Phryne, boat, (fake) marriage". I don't think I actually used any of the given words correctly, but I hope I'm forgiven!


	18. Illuminating

It was a unique quirk of Wardlow that the library was lit by the same wiring as Mr Butler’s quarters, the house’s electrical circuitry apparently as unconventional as its owner.

In the past, this hadn’t really been an issue; Phryne and Jane both preferred to read in their rooms in the evenings and when she’d lived there, Dot had always been too nervous to explore Miss Fisher’s personal collection — a wariness she felt vindicated in after a long and somewhat awkward literary confession from Hugh early in their marriage.

But now there was Jack...

Jack preferred to read in the library of an evening, sometimes very late indeed, but he absolutely refused to wake Mr Butler to do so.

“You look like the small child I’m sure you once were reading under the covers past bedtime,” Phryne had said the first time she’d caught him reading by torch, one hand holding the book, the other awkwardly directing a beam of light at the newly released anthology.

Jack had rolled his eyes and gone back to Mr Yeats.

Eventually, though, he abandoned that strategy; the torch wouldn’t balance well enough on its own and it made sipping his whisky impossible.

He tried reading in the parlour, but the mood was all wrong. The parlour belonged to him and Phryne; it had been their’s since before they were _them_. Mr Hammett felt more like an intrusive guest there, instead of a welcome friend.

He tried Phryne’s bedroom, but if she was home, Phryne would always ask him to read aloud to her which would almost invariably lead to different nighttime activities, Mr Lawson cold and forgotten on the floor.

The kitchen proved too tempting in a different way, sandwiches and biscuits and hot cocoa distractions that voraciously pulled him away from Mr Hughes.

Jack had almost given up on the beloved habit when Mr Butler found him alone one evening before retiring himself.

“If you find yourself in need of a good book tonight, sir, I recommend you try the library. I believe the situation has resolved itself.”

Then, with no further explanation, he nodded his goodnight and was gone, leaving Jack confused but curious.

He waited until Phryne had gone out for the night, then ventured to the library, careful not to turn on the lights. It turned out to not be necessary anyway — the room was fully lit all on its own, a dozen impeccably placed candlesticks with a dozen lit candles pleasantly and perfectly illuminating the entire space. And on the little table next to the nicest armchair was a large glass of fine whisky and a small plate of even smaller sandwiches.

Jack grinned, picked up Mr Whitman and took a seat.

Early the next morning he let a sleeping Phryne lie and sought out Mr Butler, who was shelling peas in the kitchen. Seeing that the man’s bowl was almost full, Jack grabbed another and placed it on the table as he took a seat himself. Mr Butler looked up and smiled.

“Good morning, Inspector.”

“Good morning, Mr Butler. I hope I didn’t keep you up at all last night; I must admit I got rather absorbed in my reading.”

“Not at all. I slept perfectly well. And I’m glad you found the accommodations to your liking.”

“Oh yes, thank you. Though I feel a bit guilty. I shouldn’t be adding to your workload — I’m not even a member of the household. I don’t wish to be a burden on your day.”

Mr Butler nodded absently and continued shelling the peas, seamlessly moving from the first bowl to the second. After a moment he cocked his head slightly and spoke.

“Do you know what job I dislike most in the kitchen?”

Jack quirked an eyebrow at the unexpected question. Assuming the answer had something to do with the peas, he replied, “If you say baking, Mr Butler, I will selfishly admit to being a little heartbroken.”

Mr Butler chuckled. “No. No, I hate scouring. Dreadful waste of time. But still, it must be done.”

Jack nodded; he’s been a single man in practice if not in name for a very long time.

“But when Mrs Butler was still here… it didn’t matter what else she was doing, or what other important matters she was attending to; if I was swamped in the kitchen, she’d boil water and soak the dishes as I went. Just… popped in, took care of them and popped back out. Even after I told her she didn’t have to. Even after I told her I was fine to manage on my own.”

Jack nodded again, a little more confused now.

“Her answer though, was always the same. She used to say it was never a hardship to help someone you care about.”

Jack smiled slightly at the older man’s words. “She sounds very wise.”

“She was,” Mr Butler agreed. Then he looked up briefly from the peas and met Jack’s eye. “One needn’t live here to be a member of the household, sir. And one needn’t be a member of the household to be a friend.”

Jack blinked in surprise.

If he’d had any expectations for this conversation, which he really hadn’t, this definitely wouldn’t have been one of them.

Of course, he knew how _he_ felt; he liked and respected Mr Butler tremendously. But he’d come to know so many of these people through Phryne. And perhaps, because of that, he’d always thought they saw him as an extension of their relationships with her. To be welcomed just as himself was... nice.

Jack nodded for the third time in as many minutes then shook his head at himself. Mr Butler’s words deserved to be responded to in kind.

“Thank you,” he said, for the story and the candles and the friendship all in one.

“You’re quite welcome,” the other man replied, though to which part Jack wasn’t entirely sure. Hopefully all three. “And thank _you_.”

Jack looked at him quizzically before Mr Butler tapped the second bowl meaningfully.

Jack shrugged as he stood, pushing in his chair before making his way over to the kettle.

“Not a hardship at all,” he replied as he turned on the tap.

Behind him, Mr Butler chuckled and continued to shell his peas.

And as the two men worked in silence, the early morning stillness of the kitchen was pleasantly transformed by the occasional sounds of Jack making tea for two and the sun gradually filling the room with light. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the lovely Allison_Wonderland, who asked for "Jack in the library with a candlestick."


	19. Shhhhh

He’s slumped against the coatroom wall, panting, straining; one hand splayed out on the cold surface, the other balled into a fist at his mouth. He’s biting on his knuckles, teeth sinking deep into the flesh, anything to keep the grunts and the groans and the growls from slipping past his lips.

In all the ridiculous ways he imagined the New Year’s Eve party at Mrs Stanley’s unfurling, he failed to account for Miss Fisher’s penchant for mischief and impropriety. In coming prepared for murder and mayhem, he omitted planning for something much more distracting. Like fellatio. 

She’s on her knees before him, head bobbing, earrings swaying; her hands gripping tightly at his still clothed hips. There’s no supplication in the pose - never supplication - just hedonistic glee and a genuine delight in giving pleasure. 

And, oh, what pleasure she gives. 

His head falls backwards and hits the wall, but the thought of wincing or acknowledging the pain in any way doesn’t even cross his foggy mind. He’s too engrossed in the sensation of her mouth on his person, too enraptured by the way her lipstick stains his skin. And when she swirls her tongue  _ just so _ , reason leaves him altogether.

“Phryne,” he keens, his voice unbearably hoarse. “Oh God, Phryne!”

She releases him and licks a strip up his cock, her mouth open in a wide smile.

“Hush, Jack,” she whispers and tugs his waistcoat and shirt upwards to plant a kiss on his lower abdomen. “You wouldn’t want Aunt P and her guests to find us being so unprofessional in here, would you?”

He shakes his head quite frantically and bites his bottom lip. He’s well aware that he may have to arrest her and himself for such indecency, but he can’t quite bring himself to care. 

When she takes him deep in her mouth again, he howls and swears like the bawdiest sailor. 

“Fuck,” he groans when she chuckles around him, the vibrations of her glee going straight to his backbone and spreading through his pelvis. And when she reaches downwards to cup him, his knees wobble almost comically. 

So close to the edge, he fumbles in his waistcoat pocket for his handkerchief, and yanks it out with a little more force than planned, tearing some of the seams for his trouble.

“Phryne,” he groans, tapping at her shoulder urgently. “Phryne, I’m - ungh!”

Just in time, she moves away and smiles triumphantly at him as he spills into his handkerchief like a bumbling schoolboy. 

“I just got this one last week,” he laments, still panting, as Phryne rises to her feet and dusts off her lovely dress.

“I’ll buy you ten more,” she purrs and kisses his parted mouth.

Jack groans into the kiss, still completely overcome. 

“Not that I’m complaining,” he smiles, finally managing to catch his breath, “but what brought this on, Miss Fisher?”

She leans into him and bites her bottom lip, her hands splayed over his chest. The scent of her desire is heady in the confined place, and he feels himself rising to the challenge. 

He’s not twenty anymore, but she makes him feel like he is.

“I liked the angle of your hat,” she breathes, her eyes at half-mast. There’s mischief in them in spades, and he finds himself being easily led.

“Mind if I return the favour?” he asks and turns them around.

Phryne smiles archly and closes her eyes.

“How can I refuse, Inspector?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For darling Whopooh who asked for "Phryne, Aunt P's, 'hush'". Hope you like it, babe!


	20. Easily Led to Water

It was a beautiful November morning; the sun was shining and Phryne was enjoying the many benefits of driving an all-weather tourer. As she turned another corner on her way back to Wardlow, she tilted her face up to catch the warm rays, in small consolation, perhaps, for her aborted beach holiday. With a sigh for her thwarted plans, she stopped at a crossing and glanced over at the park she often walked to, vaguely curious if others were out enjoying the late spring weather.

What she saw instead caused her jaw to drop and the driver behind her to lay on his horn in irritation for her gawking.

With a start, Phryne made a rude gesture to the other driver, pulled the Hispano over to park, and hopped out. Then she began walking towards the park at a clip three steps past “briskly,” where she confirmed what she’d seen from the road.

Jane. In the park. With a horse.

With a _horse_!

“Jane!” she called loudly, startling both the poor girl and the poor horse. “Whatever is going on?”

Jane, for her part, looked equal parts caught out, defiant, confused, and determined. Fairly typical for a teenage girl, actually, but Phryne was in no mood.

“Miss Phryne,” Jane said, finally finding her voice. “You’re back early.”

“I am,” Phryne confirmed archly. “But that doesn’t explain why you’re walking around with a horse in the middle of St Kilda.”

“No,” Jane said, holding the horse’s lead a little tighter. “I don’t suppose it does.”

The horse, for his part, remained uninterested in the conversation, and merely continued chewing on some grass.

Phryne sighed; if this was some prank involving the headmaster she would really rather know sooner rather than later what she was dealing with.

“Jane, I’m tired, I’m annoyed, and I’m confused — please make one of those feelings go away.”

Jane bit her lip and pulled the chestnut equine a little closer as she did.

“Do you promise not to get mad?” she asked.

“No,” Phryne answered truthfully. “But I promise to hear you out. Which, under the circumstances, seems quite fair.”

Jane thought about it for a moment, then nodded.

“Do you remember my friend Michael?” she asked as she awkwardly repositioned the horse’s lead.

Phryne nodded warily; from her own misspent youth she was rather leery of any story that began with a teenage boy’s name.

“He’s a stable boy down at Flemington. And he’s been taking care of this horse for the past month, you know, during training.”

“Alright…”

“Well yesterday… Miss Phryne, yesterday someone tried to hurt him! They didn’t succeed, but Michael and I — he asked for my opinion, you know, because he knows you’re a detective — we think they’ll try again. So we came up with a plan for me to hide him, just for a few days. Just until his next race. After he runs that, we think he’ll be safe. So you see I had to take him in, I just had to!”

Phryne’s expression softened. Ah. Of course. Jane’s heart had been stolen by a stray.

It was, Phryne decided in that moment, both flattering and frightening to see yourself so well in your child.

“And you thought a public park in St Kilda was a good hiding spot?” she inquired with a small, knowing smile.

“No,” Jane said. “I was going to keep him at Aunt Prudence’s stable, but — ”

“But then you found out it was being renovated.”

“I did,” she admitted peevishly, before perking up a little. “So I improvised.”

Phryne’s smile dropped away as the pieces all began to fit together and she recalled how very close this park was to her home. “Where?” she asked hesitantly, unsure if she really wanted the answer.

“The garage?”

“Jane!”

“I know, I’m sorry! But you were away for the week and I thought it was a good, safe space. I could bring him here during the day and keep him inside at night. It’s only two more days, I promise!”

Phryne sighed again. “Fine.” Another lesson from her misspent youth was that Jane was probably going to do much worse at some point and this was not the hill to die on. She raised an eyebrow in curiosity. “How did you even get him here?”

“Cec and Bert. They have a friend who — ”

“You know what? I don’t want to know.”

Jane laughed and then Phryne rolled her eyes and laughed too. “Alright, let’s get Athansor here in some shade.”

Together they walked the animal under a nearby tree where he happily continued grazing.

“He’ll need more food than that,” Phryne noted, nodding at the grass.

“Oh I know,” Jane replied. “I have it all set up at home. He’s on a special diet. I also have a feeding schedule and a bathing schedule and an exercise schedule and Michael and Cec are taking turns checking in on him as well. And it turns out Mr Butler has some experience too, so everything is pretty well covered and — what?”

The girl paused as she took in the expression on her guardian's face, which, Phryne assumed, looked something akin to wistful pride.

“Nothing. Just… well every time I think about how soon I’m going to be sending you off into the world, and worry you might not be prepared enough, you show me what a smart, capable young woman you are. I’m not even sure you need me at all anymore.” She put her arm around Jane’s shoulder and pulled her in for a sideways hug. “Which, I suppose, is somewhat the point, isn’t it?”

Jane didn’t say anything for a moment. Then she slowly lowered her head onto Phryne’s shoulder. “Well… maybe I need you a little while longer.”

Phryne kissed the top of Jane’s head and held her just a little tighter.

They stood like that for several long minutes, just watching the horse and enjoying the pleasant day. Eventually, though, Jane’s natural curiosity returned.

“Why _are_ you back early, anyway? I thought you and the Inspector were going to be away for at least three more days.”

“Oh it’s silly. Essentially he got called back for work. There’s a major kidnapping case and it’s all hands on deck. Except it’s not actually a _person_. Apparently someone tried to shoot Phar Lap before the Melbourne Stakes and then he just disappeared right after the race and — ”

Phryne stopped. Beside her, Jane was very, very still.

“Jane,” Phryne began slowly, “is it possible we are currently in possession of the most famous horse in Australia?”

Jane waited a long, long moment before replying.

“...do you really want the answer to that question?”

Phryne looked at the animal, happy and safe and still officially unknown to her as far as any potential legal inquiry could prove. Feeling a bit like how she suspected Jack did half the time, she made a decision. 

“You know what? I really don’t.” 

Her head still against Phryne’s shoulder, Jane nodded but said nothing.

And the horse had no comment either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For elysianhalcyon who asked for “jane (in the) park (with a) horse!”
> 
> Athansor is the horse from _A Winter's Tale_.
> 
> Phar Lap was a real champion racehorse who captured the Australian public's imagination during the early years of the Great Depression. And criminals really did try to shoot Phar Lap on the morning of November 1, 1930, but did not succeed. Later that day he won the Melbourne Stakes, and three days later he also won the Melbourne Cup.
> 
> History doesn't tell us where he was for those three days though... 🤔😉


	21. Catch!

Aunt Prudence has a lovely veranda. 

Growing up, Phryne had always loved spending Sundays - right after church, when Father would stumble home and Mother would take Janey and her to a delicious luncheon at her aunt and uncle’s - curled up with one of the many books in Uncle Edward’s spacious library. The breeze would tussle her hair lazily, and Janey would run wild across the vast green grounds, with Arthur in tow. Those were precious times; no drunkard father, no maudlin mother. Just books, fresh air, and good food. 

For years to come - through Janey’s disappearance, through the war and Paris - Phryne would close her eyes and remember those times with fondness, despite the terrible loss and dark days that followed them. She’d always keep a hidden place in her heart free of sorrow and full of Aunt P’s handsome veranda. 

Today, though, her wonderful memories are precariously challenged. 

The lavishly decorated balcony is swarming with very rich ladies and very attentive staff, all eager to be of use. Raising money for charity is hungry work, and everyone must do their part; be it by eating, or by plating.

The tables are groaning under the heavy weight of food and drink young Phryne could only dream of in her wildest dreams. 

Older Phryne, however, would rather spend her day watching paint dry.

_ Late Sunday mornings _ , she decides petulantly, as yet another pompous old biddy takes the floor to drone on about the benefits of the  _ Knitting Veterans _ program,  _ are for lazing in bed, preferably with a serious man and a good book, and should under no circumstances be used for anything else!  _

Especially if that ‘anything else’ comes in the form of old society ladies with too much money and spare time on their hands, and a luncheon that would put some very fancy official balls she’d attended in the past to shame. 

She casts a somewhat resentful side-glance at the woman sitting next to her. Aunt Prudence, in all her silk and lacey glory, sits upright and listens to the monotone monologue very intently, nodding emphatically at every second word. The woman has a generous heart, to be sure, and Phryne loves her deeply for it; she just wishes it wasn’t so generous with  _ her  _ time.

Normally, Phryne wouldn’t mind attending the odd luncheon or two at Aunt P’s; not when she can convince a certain Detective Inspector to accompany her. There are precious few things she enjoys more than seeing Jack Robinson enjoy good food, and a sated Jack means a thoroughly sated Phryne, in more ways than one.

Unfortunately, Jack isn’t around to accompany her today. He’s off visiting a cousin in Adelaide, a suffering actor, who is apparently very fond of the Bard - a family trait, no doubt - and too dramatic for his own good. 

There’s a play, it’s probably not very good - Jack is an angel. 

Phryne huffs and starts fiddling with her serviette. On the floor, the self-important old battle-axe draws a lace handkerchief out of her handbag with a flourish and dabs at her teary eyes. Around her, twenty-odd biddies of various ages hasten to do the same. Phryne wonders if shooting her pistol for a much-needed distraction is likely to get her arrested.

“Phryne, really! Stop  _ fidgeting _ !” her aunt admonishes her suddenly, her voice somehow both booming and hushed, and making her feel like a child again. 

Well, this is certainly not how she expected to be reminded of her childhood on the blasted veranda today.

She turns to Aunt P, rolling eyes and defiant speech at the ready, when several things happen at once.

The pompous old fusspot drops both handbag and sodden hanky to the floor, mouth open in a silent scream, one of the waiters upends an entire bottle of expensive French champagne onto the lap of one of the richest ladies in Melbourne, and a loud cry - sounding suspiciously like a yodel - pierces the buzzing ambience of the social event.

Phryne springs to her feet - followed by twenty-odd biddies of various ages doing the same - peers over the heads of the guests, and  _ cackles _ . 

In a series of grunts and drumming sounds, followed by that aforementioned cry, a large emu bursts through the grounds in a mad sprint, trying desperately to detach an unwanted addition to his back. To Phryne’s unbridled amusement, the unwanted, yodelling addition proves to be none other than Bert, hanging on for dear life, fingers clutching desperately at the poor bird’s feathers. Another figure, whom she easily identifies as an ashen-faced Cec, flies after the unlikely pair, clasping his flat clap close to his chest.

“You and your bloody strays!” comes the swiftly fading scream, as the trio disappears into the greenery, not to be seen again. 

Phryne crows in delight. She briefly wonders if she can persuade the cabbie to obtain a feather or two. She has an appointment booked with the milliner, after all.

Twenty-odd biddies of various ages start chattering excitedly all at once and pandemonium seems to break ground on Aunt P’s lovely-once-more veranda.

Phryne takes a seat and stretches her legs before her with a bright smile.

“Please pass the scones, Aunt Prudence,” she says pleasantly to the still gaping older woman and pours herself a steaming cup of tea.

Suddenly luncheon is looking much better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the glorious Bluecityrose who asked for "Phryne and Aunt P, society luncheon, emu" - and, really, how could I refuse??


	22. Inheritance

In Hugh’s (admittedly limited) experience, there were three basic types of mates.

There were mates you had from childhood, kids you’d run around the neighborhood with as you became _you,_ and who you formed lifelong friendships with as a result.

There were mates you had from the force, blokes you’d run into fire for and who would run into it for you, and in that fire your friendship was forged.

And then there were mates you just sort of… inherited. People who you knew by proximity or other relationships, who you got on well enough with to call a mate, but you weren’t always entirely certain how you got there.

Cec, Hugh thought as he watched the landscape whiz past, was an inherited mate. Not that he didn’t like Cec, of course; he did. But he had definitely inherited Cec as a friend, which was probably why Hugh had no idea how he’d got _here_.

Here, of course, being three hours into their roughly six hour trek to Chiltern. It was a long and boring trip, and besides the occasional observation about some interesting bit of scenery, they hadn’t really chatted much. To be fair, Hugh had slept a fair amount of the trip so far, knowledgeable that he would be doing all the driving on the return leg. They were on their way to pick up a pony of all things, an older injury-prone mare whose fate had looked bleak until Cec had heard about her via his cousin’s husband’s sister’s friend.

Cec had arranged to come pick up the equine with a borrowed truck, but needed a second driver so that he could stay in the back with the pony on the drive home.

Enter Hugh.

Well, actually, enter Dot.

Alice had been telling Dot about this story, and lamenting Cec’s lack of a partner, when Dot had volunteered her husband for the trip.

“You have the day off anyway,” she’d insisted. “And besides, it’s our duty to help that poor creature if we can. I’d do it myself except…” Then she’d looked down at her small bump of a stomach and the argument had been entirely lost for Hugh.

Even now he grinned thinking about the babe and decided a day spent traveling was more than a fair trade.

“Whatcha smilin’ at?” Cec asked, interrupting Hugh’s musings. “See something interesting out there?”

“No,” Hugh said, sitting up a bit and stretching his neck. “Just, uh, just thinking about Dottie,” he admitted.

Cec kept his eyes on the road but he smiled a bit too. “That’s good. It’s good to smile when ya think about your wife.” Then he laughed quietly. “Better still when they smile thinkin’ on you.”

Hugh nodded his agreement; he forgot, sometimes, in the wondering how he’d gotten here, that the two men did actually have some things in common. For example, they both adored their wives.

“Tea?” he asked, grabbing a thermos from the floor and carefully removing the lid.

“Yeah, that’d be great,” Cec said. “I’m hoping we can go straight through and just eat when we get there.”

Hugh slowly poured one cup and handed it to Cec, who acknowledged it with a friendly nod. Then he poured himself one and sampled it.

Dottie really did make a very enjoyable cup of tea.

Hugh took another sip and watched the trees blur together outside the window. “You got plans for this thing back in Melbourne?” he asked absently, cradling the cup to keep it from spilling. At Cec’s confused expression he added, “the pony I mean. Can’t imagine Alice is gonna let you keep that at the bungalow.”

Cec laughed. “No, that might be a bridge too far even for her good heart. The pony’s actually going to Mrs Stanley’s.”

Hugh raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Really?”

“Yeah. I gotta check for myself, of course, but by all accounts this mare’s sweet enough to be good for littles, so Mrs S is gonna let Teddy ride ‘er.”

Hugh shook his head. “Now that I did not see coming.”

Cec smiled softly. “Don’t let the act fool ya. That lady’s crazy for kiddies. You just wait, as soon as your babe’s sittin up, she’ll have ‘em on the back of that pony too, learning proper riding technique, and spoilin’ ‘em with sweeties.”

Hugh shifted in his seat a little uncomfortably at the idea of his still unborn child riding a horse and eased the subject in a different direction. “Is that how you started with animals then, Cec? Your mum and dad have you riding before you could walk?”

Cec’s smile shifted into something a little sadder and Hugh immediately regretted his question. “Naw. My mum died when I was real young. Don’t remember too much about her except her favorite song and her team. And my dad… my dad was a good man, you know, tried really hard with us, even on his own. But I, uh, lost him too when I was eight. That was… hard. Sort of just shuffled around between relatives after that.”

“I’m sorry,” Hugh said, and he truly meant it. He hadn’t realized they had that in common too.

“Naw, it’s fine. I mean, it is what it is. I was lucky enough to have about a hundred relations willing to look after me for at least a little while at a time and I got some good memories from my dad too. That’s better than a lot.”

Hugh nodded at that and glanced back out the window. “That’s a good way of looking at it.” He finished the last of his tea and stared into the now empty cup. “I hope I give my kid that. Good memories, I mean. I’m… if I’m being honest, I’m a little nervous about the whole thing.”

Cec shook his head with authority. “Naw, you’ll do great. I’ve seen ya handle Bert when he’s being an arse — you’ll be a terrific dad.”

Hugh barked out a laugh. “Yeah, thanks. Not sure I can just lock my kid up in the drunk tank though.”

“Won’t know unless ya try, eh.”

Hugh chuckled. “I’ll let _you_ suggest that to Dottie.” Then he rolled his shoulders again and shifted to better face Cec. “Why isn’t he here, anyway?”

“Who?”

“Bert.”

Cec snorted “Can’t ask Bert for this kinda job.”

“Why not?”

“He’s afraid of ponies.”

Hugh blinked. “He’s afraid of horses?”

Cec shook his head. “Not horses. _Ponies_. Specifically.”

“Aren’t ponies just small horses?”

“Basically, yeah.”

“So why…”

“He thinks they’re shifty.”

“Ponies?”

“Yeah.”

“Bert thinks ponies are shifty?”

“Yeah. Says they’re unnecessarily small. Thinks they’re hiding something.”

At that Hugh let out a laugh so loud it actually startled Cec before he joined in himself.

“It’s not a secret,” Cec added. “You can ask him about it.”

“Oh, oh I will,” Hugh promised once he could breathe again. Still fighting some residual giggles, Hugh looked out the window and noticed an upcoming exit sign on the road. “Oh, Euroa’s coming up. I heard their Football Club is doing great this year.” He checked the time. “They’re probably practicing now — fancy a look?”

Cec shook his head, looking a little chagrined. “Can’t,” he said. “Not really welcome in Euroa right now.” Hugh’s expression must have telegraphed his confusion, because Cec added, “a job for Miss Fisher gone sideways.”

Hugh immediately understood and nodded his head in sympathy; there were consequences, sometimes, to constantly getting pulled into one absurd situation or another by Miss Fisher.

 _That_ he did know they had in common.

“Hey Cec, did I ever tell you about this one time when she convinced me and the Inspector…”

When they pulled into Chiltern several hours later, Hugh was surprised by how quickly the time had gone, and by how very much he had enjoyed himself.

They might not have their childhoods in common, or run together into fires very often, but as far as inheritances went, Cec was pretty damn good.

Even if he did barrack for West Melbourne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Joaryn who asked for the very specific "Hugh, Chiltern (Victoria), ponies" and who I thank for helping me discover where Chiltern is located. 😂
> 
> Did I somehow end up with two horse prompts despite knowing nothing about horses? I did! It's 2020, baby, anything can happen.


	23. Pickle

After the tennis match, he invites her over for a nightcap in his garden. 

She accepts the surprising invitation without a second thought. It’s an unexpected location for their usual post-case drinks, to be sure, but so is a spontaneous game of tennis in the middle of the afternoon. Besides, one does not simply turn down an invitation from the likes of Jack Robinson.

Not even if it includes the outdoors on a cold August night. 

When it becomes obvious that he’s planning to feed her as well as quench her thirst, she has to physically bite down on her bottom lip to keep from grinning too widely. It really wouldn’t do to let Jack know just how excited she is at the prospect of him wining and dining her. And at his own house, no less!

And who knows, if she plays her cards right, there may be breakfast in her future, too. 

“I hope you like lamb,” he says, fishing for the keys in his coat pocket. He threw it over his tennis whites when it became chilly, but kept it unbuttoned, despite the wind. “I made a whole roast yesterday. Turned out rather well.”

To be honest, she’d eat anything he’d put before her right now. She’s equal parts too nervous and ravenous to care what she puts in her mouth tonight in terms of food. 

She’s absolutely no reservations about the _other_ thing, though.

“I do, yes,” she replies dutifully and leans against the doorjamb as Jack fiddles with his keys. Over the muted echo of the lock mechanism turning, she becomes aware of another sound - one that suspiciously resembles whining - and frowns.

“What is that - ” she begins to say just as Jack finally pushes the door open. For a precious second or two, there’s nothing but silence - almost eerie, deathly still - but then, the peace is interrupted by a lunging dark blur and Jack’s loud exclamation as the shadow tackles him to the ground.

Ready for battle, Phryne reaches for the pistol in her bag only to stop at the still unfamiliar sound of Jack’s laughter. Bewildered, she turns to the splayed out figure of her stoic Detective Inspector, now squirming rather vigorously under what appears to be an assailant of the canine persuasion. The dog - a Blue Heeler, she notes knowingly - seems hell-bent on licking every spare centimetre of Jack’s face, wiggling its tail enthusiastically, both front paws set firmly against the man’s chest.

“Pickle!” Jack chuckles, twisting his neck and turning his head from the onslaught.“Down, mate!” 

“ _Pickle…?_ ” Phryne echoes weakly, her lips starting to twitch with an involuntary smile. Just when she thinks Jack has no additional surprises for her up his proverbial sleeve, he goes and does something completely stupendous like owning a dog with a ridiculous name. 

“Need a hand, Inspector?” she offers, thoroughly charmed by the picture he presents. Hair loose, shirttails sticking out of his trousers, nose scrunched in mirth - it’s a rare treat to see him so unbridled in indulgence. It’s a heady drug, to sample him so unrestrained. 

She takes a step closer, leans over to offer her assistance, and stops short at a sudden low, threatening growl. Carefully, without any sudden movements, she gathers her proffered hand to her chest and looks at the dog. The look it’s giving her is equal parts unamused and unwelcoming, and she finds herself begrudgingly admiring the animal’s intelligence.

‘Me too’, she wants to tell the dog in camaraderie. ‘You’re not the only one who wants to keep him safe’.

“Pickle!” Jack admonishes the furry beast and gently pushes it off his chest. “Play nice! It’s Miss Fisher, we like her.”

Very deliberately, he outstretches his hand in her direction and flexes his palm. Phryne catches on to his intention immediately and stoops to help him up. The dog - Pickle - looks on with a surprisingly human expression that seems to read as ‘I see it, but I don’t have to like it’, and, turning his tail on them, ambles back inside the house. 

“Don’t mind him,” Jack says sheepishly, dusting off his trousers. “He’s not used to sharing me with, well, almost anyone, really.”

Now, that sounds interesting.

He gestures her inside and she steps ahead of him to enter the elegant foyer. Her eyes take all the details in, categorizing them diligently; cream coloured wallpaper, reddish-brown wooden pegs for overcoats and hats, a handsome stand by the door with a simple vase with lovely orchids, no doubt grown in the distinguished garden. At the end of the foyer, near the stairs and the entry to the dining room, stands Pickle in all his bluish glory. 

“Miss Fisher is our guest for the evening, mate,” she hears Jack behind her; by the shift in his voice, she can tell that he’s probably shrugging his coat off and hanging it on the proper peg. “Be sociable and she just might give you a piece of lamb off her plate - may I take your coat, Miss Fisher?”

His voice, so close to her ear, sends a shiver down her spine.

“And what if I get cold, Inspector?” she purrs, twirling around. The slight bobbing of his Adam’s Apple gives her the much-needed confidence to restore her momentarily shifted equilibrium. This here - she’s flirting, he’s flustered - is familiar ground. This, she can do in her sleep.

To his merit, he recovers quickly and tugs on the lapels of her overcoat.

“I’m sure I’ll find some hideously knitted jumper to keep you warm, should it come to that.”

Phryne abhors card games, but she’s more than willing to play this one. 

She shrugs out of her coat and reaches past Jack to hang it on an empty peg, deliberately brushing her chest against his arm. His almost silent intake of breath makes her blood sing.

“You promised lamb, Jack?” 

“So I did.”

His quiet rumble is certainly delicious enough.

“Lead the way, then.”

* * *

They eat in his kitchen, in an intimate setting, with Pickle sitting at his master’s feet. The lighting is soft - Jack has lit two or three candles - and the food is delicious; a lovely bottle of German wine complements the scrumptious meal perfectly. 

“I hope you don’t mind the informality,” Jack says, sneaking a morsel of lamb off his plate to the sprawled out dog. “I thought this might be nicer.”

Phryne reaches out and covers his hand with hers.

“It’s perfect, Jack,” she assures him, her voice soft. “And the food is very good. I had no idea you could cook like this.”

He shrugs self-deprecatingly and brings his glass of wine to his lips. His other hand, the one still covered by her own, turns palm-up and his thumb closes over her wrist.

“I’ve been a bachelor in all but name for three years before my divorce was finalised, Phryne, how did you think I survived?”

She lowers her eyes to their hands and allows her fingertips to caress the sliver of skin just over the strip of his wristwatch. 

“I don’t know, Jack,” she teases. “Perhaps I’d imagined a horde of grateful widows sending you care baskets…”

He huffs good-naturedly and tilts his head at her, his eyes shining. 

“No, just me,” he says, the corners of his lips turning downwards in a smile. After a moment, at a rather reprimanding whine from under the table, he adds, “and Pickle.”

Phryne rolls her lips together and nods. 

“So, Pickle is your and Rosie’s dog…?” she asks carefully. She’s got a fast-developing theory on the subject but doesn’t wish to presume. 

Jack shakes his head.

“Eh, no, no. Pickle came after,” he flashes her a brief, little smile, confirming her suspicion. 

“Oh?”

She’s fiendishly curious, of course, but doesn’t wish to push him. Jack can be awfully skittish in all matters personal. 

“My father got him for me after Rosie had gone to live with her sister,” he explains simply, bending a little sideways at the hip to caress the lying dog. “He figured I could do with another bachelor around the house, seeing as how I’d become one.” 

Phryne nods in understanding. “He didn’t want you to be lonely.”

What a lovely, considerate thought. 

Jack flashes her a sheepish smile. 

“Pickle loves him, naturally,” he continues, instead of verbally confirming Phryne’s assessment. “Father takes him to their house when I’m working long shifts and my mother spoils him rotten. We have to go on extensive bicycle rides the following day, don’t we, mate?”

Pickle barks in affirmation and Phryne has a sudden vision of man and dog riding and running into the sunrise, the road a red carpet at their feet. 

“It sounds lovely,” she says softly, quite taken with the picture. 

But it’s more than that, of course; she’s quite taken with _him._ The man and his loose hair and noble character and sharp mind, and even his damn dog. She’s excessively fond of this single pillar of the community, this solid, serious man that looks at her with affection in his eyes and amusement on his lips. And, oh, what lips they are!

Jack fixes her with one of his slowly-blinking, knowing looks, and her heart stutters. 

“Nightcap?” he rumbles, and she can’t help but be reminded of another night and another proposition and, surely, another outcome.

“Yes,” she acquiesces a little more breathlessly than she’d intended to. But no matter, it gets the point across. 

Jack rises from the table and takes their plates to the sink, Phryne picks up their wine glasses and follows him. She stands beside him as he rinses the dishes and sets them up to dry, and comes to a decision.

“Jack?” she turns to him when he dries his hands off on a fluffy towel. He quirks his eyebrows at her, his mouth arching with a little smile.

“Hmmm?”

“Thank you for supper.”

And before he has the chance to reply to her appreciation with self-deprecating modesty as he was no doubt planning on doing, she takes a step forward and, rising on tip-toes, softly brushes her lips against his. 

When she drops back on her heels, he follows her, his cool palm cupping the nape of her neck and drawing her back to him. His mouth is hot and soft and insistent, and she finds herself drowning in the heady sensation of having this man kiss her so intensely. It’s fire and deep currents and whirlwinds and avalanche all set in one, and she curls her fingers into his knitted vest and pulls him ever closer, anchoring herself to his body and scent. 

Somehow, they find themselves back at the table, and Jack picks Phryne up effortlessly and positions her right on the edge. She spreads her thighs invitingly and he steps between them, his own legs warm against her stockinged skin, despite the barrier of his trousers.

He’s hard and steady and she’s soft and wild, her fingers gripping at his loose curls and tugging. She feels the hiss of his breath at her neck and arches further into him, the crotch of her knickers rubbing against the front of his trousers.

She feels his hand on her thigh, gliding upwards and disappearing under her skirts, the fingers sliding under the strap of her garter belt and unclasping the stoking. Then, tortuously slow, delicately teasing, Jack caresses the skin of her inner thigh all the way up to her -

“Oh, no!” she cries suddenly, and he stops short, withdrawing his hand immediately. Phryne makes a grab for his wrist to keep him in place. “No, wait, Jack! It’s my device, it’s still at the station!”

The look of relief that crosses his face for a fleeting second is quite a sight to behold. 

“Oh, that’s, ah, not a problem.”

Phryne looks at him incredulously, her hand still holding his in place on her inner thigh.

“How, Jack? How is that _not_ a problem?” 

He colours so thoroughly, so prettily, that she finds herself momentarily distracted from her woes.

“Well, I, uh - that is, I have some...prophylactics. In my, uh, bedroom. If - if you’re still - “

He’s so endearingly flustered and flushed that Phryne decides to take pity on him and not ask why would a seemingly solitary man keep French Letters in his bedroom. She’d like to think that he’d acquired them for this very reason - that he planned with her in mind - but not even she is that vain. 

“Jack Robinson, you dark horse,” she purrs instead, utterly delighted at this welcome development. He rolls his lips together to try and fight off a smile, and - quite suddenly - she sees him as a youth: eager, happy, besotted. She gives him a few moments to compose himself before she pounces. “Let’s use them all!”

* * *

He’s moving deep inside her, and it’s good, and right, and utterly addicting. 

The angle of his hips, the rasp of his voice when he groans in her ear - benedictions and oaths - the clench of his teeth when she tightens around him; up, up, up she climbs, and down, down, down she falls. The sweat of his exertion is on her skin, the scent of her pleasure is ripe on his lips; they move together as partners who were in sync long before they shared flesh. It’s an unexpected joy - to know him and to _know_ him - to be bare before him in more ways than one.

Oddly enough, she finds the thought comforting. There’s no place for fear in her heart.

His lips on her neck are hot and moist and burning, and she’s close - so, so close. Just another stroke - two, three more - and she’ll crash under him like a gale, or thunder. She arches beneath him, turns her head to allow him better access, her eyes flying open at a particularly clever twist of his hips.

“Oh God, oh Jack, oh - _Argh! What’s it doing here_?!”

Jack stops mid-thrust, turns to look at the source of her anguish and starts laughing.

There, just by the bed, sits the blasted dog, it’s head tilted slightly in a way that strongly reminds Phryne of its owner, and _pants_.

“Pickle!” Jack admonishes it and swats at the air around it with one arm, his chortles rocking her body from the inside. “Get out of here, you cheeky sod! Shoo! Go on with you!” 

But the dog just lets out a hearty bark and attempts to jump on the bed and join them for a rather unwanted version of a menage-a-trois, at which point Phryne shrieks and Jack laughs all the harder. 

“Get it out of here, Inspector, if you want to finish!” she threatens, her fingers gripping at the hard muscle of his arms. 

The man has the audacity to look down at her fondly and kiss her nose.

“Don’t go anywhere,” he groans as he slips out of her, one hand holding the French Letter in place, the other supporting the weight of his body. 

She’s left bereft and aching - so close to the edge and yet so out of reach - so she lets her hand trail down the slopes of her belly and on to the cluster of raven curls between her thighs. Her fingers slip and glide over her clit while Jack attempts to shoo the dog out of the door. 

“Come on, Pickle, out!” he begs, his voice strained and raspier than usual. “Miss Fisher is shy, I’m sorry, mate. I promise to make it up to you tomorrow.” 

Phryne bites her bottom lips to stop from laughing and allows two fingers to trail even further down and slide into her waiting body. 

Having closed the door in the dog’s face, Jack turns around, ready to return to bed, and comes to a halt.

“Phryne,” he rasps at the sight of her touching herself in the middle of his bed. Neither of them pays any attention to the whining and scratching on the other side of the door.

“Shy, am I?” she moans, and, having abandoned the task of self-pleasuring at Jack’s imminent return, opens her arms to beckon him to her side. “I’ll show you shy.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

* * *

She wakes up in the middle of the blasted night to attend to an urgent call of nature.

Slipping from under Jack’s surprisingly tactile embrace, she stumbles towards the door in her birthday suit and nearly trips over the sleeping dog upon opening it. 

The animal raises its head and peers at Phryne with a rather calculated look. After a moment's contemplation, it rises to its feet and decides to trail after her all the way to the lavatory on the ground floor.

When Phryne’s done with the facilities, she’s not at all surprised to find the dog waiting for her outside.

“So that’s how it is,” she whispers at the thing. “You don’t trust me, is that it?”

The dog scrutinises her silently, without moving a muscle.

“Well, you should. We’re not so different, you and I,” she says petulantly and crosses her arms. After a full minute of silence, she decides that a change of tactics is in order, and crouches down next to the dog, which looks a little startled for a second.

“I’ll let you in on a little secret, Pickle,” she says a little more softly and outstretches her hand towards the dog’s muzzle. It bends its head to sniffle on her palm somewhat reluctantly. “You’re not the only one who loves him. I do, too - oh, don’t look at me like that, I mean it!”

Pickle presses its cold, wet nose to her palm and attempts a lick.

“And I’m not scared, though, by all rights, I should be!” she continues, reaching out with her other hand to scratch the dog behind the ear. “There’s just something about him, isn’t there?” 

Pickle moves to lick her wrist, now slightly more enthusiastically, and Phryne realises that Jack’s scent is probably still on her skin. The thought makes her flush just a little. 

“Anyway,” she concludes, rising to her feet. “I’ve not told him yet, so you keep quiet, please. Now, let’s go.”

The dog follows her all the way to the bedroom.

When she flips the covers away, Jack stirs and opens his arms.

“Come here,” he mumbles sleepily, and, smiling, she does.

A few moments later, just before sleep overtakes her, she feels an additional weight on the bed and hears a canine huff.

She sleeps.

* * *

A few hours later Phryne’s awoken by soft light and whines. She moans a little in protest and stretches, turning away from the disturbance. A moment later, she feels cool lips at her temple and warm arms around her waist. She smiles. A woman can get used to waking up to this.

“Somebody’s insisting on walkies. Loudly and insistently,” comes the deep rumble in her ear and she shivers at the deliciousness of its low timbre. Arching backwards a little, she attempts to turn, but Jack’s arms around her tighten just a tad and he presses another kiss, this time to her hair. “Shhh, don’t get up. You can still sleep. I’ll get back and make us some breakfast, yes?”

Phryne smiles lazily and hums in affirmation, cracking one eye open so that she’s able to spy on him as he flies around the room, getting ready. He slips out of bed in all his naked glory, his morning erection every bit as impressive as the one she’s been introduced to the previous night. 

She wonders if he could be persuaded to postpone breakfast for a little while upon his return. She has several plans she’d like to see through before she eats.

At the door, dog and man turn to regard her, one with unbridled fondness, the other with budding, begrudging respect.

Phryne smiles into her pillow.

She played her cards right, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my wonderful Whopooh, who asked for 'Jack, Jack's place, paw' - I hope you like it!


	24. Magic

There was one over the front door

Another o'er the rear

One more in the dark space

Where they stored the beer

There was one above the bottom step

And one above the top

One inside the closet

Swinging from the mop

There were scores inside the library

Attached to every book

That bore the name of Shakespeare

If one would only look

There was one inside the garage

And one inside the loo

One above the piano

For a sense of déjà vu

There were several in the kitchen

Which wasn’t a coincidence

Same went for the dining room

As one should know one's audience

They were in fact adorning

All the crannies and the nooks

Of Wardlow’s many rooms

Hanging from its many hooks

Cuz if the lady of the house

Had taught her just one lesson

It was that if she’d trust her heart

All things she’d have success in

And she is fierce, though she be little

And full of teenage pluck

And if these two would not just kiss

Then Jane would play their Puck

And so the house was fully decked

Brightening the scenery

With sprigs and sprigs and sprigs of

Hemi-parasitic greenery

And when another case was closed

Upon a Christmas Eve

Jack and Phryne found that neither

Wanted a reprieve

They stayed up late and late and late

And even later still

Admiring the genus Viscum

On her window sill

And who can say what in the end

It was compelled their kisses

Or what finally stopped their string

Of impossibly near misses

It could have been the fernery

Or maybe the champagne

Or maybe Christmas magic

And a clever elf named Jane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Particularfavorite, who asked for "Jane, Wardlow, mischief." Forgive my second attempt at poetry, my dear, but it seemed to fit the prompt and my mood. 😉
> 
> Happy holidays if you celebrate any during this time of year, and happy Thursday if you don’t. ❤️
> 
> Also, a quick personal note — it’s my ficiversary! Three years ago today I posted my very first story for any fandom ever and little did I know at the time what a rewarding adventure it would lead to. 
> 
> And, as we get ready to bid an eager goodbye to 2020, I would like to say that though this year has not been what any of us hoped for, I continue to be thankful for this fandom, especially the folks who have shared in my attempts to write a little joy into the world and my pocket friends who have made this year bearable.
> 
> Thank you all for making me feel so welcome in this amazing sandbox. ❤️
> 
> ~Aurora~


	25. Fallout

In the fallout of Miss Fisher’s spectacle at the Imperial Club, you’re left cemented in deep thought in the solitary of your office, a useless register open on your desk.

There are names and names and names - a list of John Smiths as long as your arm - but your eyes mist over, no longer seeing the pages, and the inky lines blur into a picture of  _ her,  _ in all her feathered glory.

She’s a vision in pink and coral and white, and you find yourself back in the darkened room, trying to prevent a fond smile from erupting into a full-blown grin at her rather typical audacity. The cigar smoke and alcohol fumes and the cheap perfume permeating the poorly ventilated area all fade into the background as she twirls sensuously on stage. You forget the jazzy number playing on the gramophone, too; there’s nothing but Miss Fisher and her rather unorthodox methods of investigation.

Now, in the privacy of your office, you allow yourself to contemplate and examine the experience. You’re a detective, first and foremost, and you can’t help but study the evidence so exquisitely laid out before you. You approach the matter in the same manner you solve crime, by looking into the suspects and digging deep for the truth. There’s her and you - and it’s a little unconventional, interrogating yourself - but there you have it; it’s strangely comforting to know that you can be unorthodox, too. 

You’re incongruous in the dimly-lit den of sin, with your seemingly straight-laced demeanour and rigid moral code, that much is obvious. Apart from that one time during your cadetship, you’ve never set foot in a bordello if you could help it; nothing on display was ever to your fancy or your conscience. You’re a man of honour, you’re made of steel; cheap drink and cheaper flesh do not tempt you - the war did not turn you into a disloyal man, you doubt a house of ill repute will succeed where the loneliness of the battlefield failed. So it’s safe to say that you’re as out of place in this club as the pope is in hell - but, then, so is she. 

Despite the feathers and powdered bare skin, regardless of the infamous penchant for the carnal pleasures, she’s detached from the earthiness of depravity that is the lot of this fine establishment. She soars above such crudity, leaves her name unblemished; there’s more than anonymity to protect her reputation here. It’s the way she never judges the women making their living off the questionable affection of the men who frequent the club. They’re free to do as they choose, and she - she is freer still. She regards this undercover job as an adventure - another peak she’s yet to claim - and you find yourself marvelling at the jovial force with which she takes that hill.

You admire her boldness, her fearlessness, her independence - how liberated she is, exempt from most traditional bindings. Her freedom juxtaposes with your own shackles, your reservations, your regrets; irons you have chosen for yourself. You are your own judge and jailor - even now, even after the divorce - but it is not your honour you guard under lock and key; no, there are more things in heaven and earth, and you have your own philosophy.

Regardless of your self-inflicted confinement, her unbridled spirit lights a fire in your belly; a flame that may very well turn into a conflagration if left unattended. You’re charmed, despite yourself, by almost everything she does and everything she is - the grubby Collingwood girl and the glamorous socialite; the resourceful urchin and the clever detective - and all the versions of her are merging and seeping deep into your bones. You want her - physically as well as intellectually - there’s absolutely no denying that fact now. You’d be a fool not to notice her lovely assets - it may have been a while since you’d seen a good pair of tits, but even you can tell that hers are  _ spectacular  _ \- after all, you’re cautious, not dead. 

You admire her for her many charms - her spirit, her intellect, her unapologetic need to live life to the fullest - something stirs in the cold smithy of your chest and roars to life. You know all this, you know the risks, and so you double up the guards around your heart. 

You can hear the unmistakable click of her heels as she approaches your office, so you school your features and sit a little straighter in your chair. You gear up for battle and arm your watchmen and don your armour as a proper soldier does. 

“Hello, Jack,” she purrs as she glides closer to your desk, her golden dress lighting up the room and the inside of your chest. “Enjoying your reading?”

You quirk an eyebrow at her and flash her your barely-there smile. You banter and flirt, but stay aloof and barricaded in your fortress.

And a few months later, with her in your arms and in your heart and in your blood, you close your eyes and smirk at your futile battle plans; trust Miss Fisher to storm a well-guarded prison with a lockpick - 

And win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my most beloved of all, my partner in crime, the ying to my yang - Aurora Australis - who asked for "Phryne, Imperial Club, incongruous" because she knows I like sexy words :D
> 
> I love you, babe, you're the best writing partner a girl could ask for! Thank you for dragging me onboard this send-off (who am I kidding, I said yes before there were any specifics!) Here's to a new year full of health and lovely collaborations! 
> 
> And to the rest of our readers who celebrate - Merry Christmas to you and yours!
> 
> xx  
> Arlome


	26. Keen

Jack strode into his office and tossed his hat on the desk, shrugging out of his coat before taking a seat in his chair. He picked up a pen to begin his report, but paused when he noticed that Hugh had followed him into the room and was now hovering halfway between the desk and the door, clearly awaiting further instructions. 

“Yes?”

“I was just wondering, sir, if you wanted to hear my notes.”

Jack put his pen down. Right. He’d instructed Hugh to start taking better notes during investigations. Better notes, better detective, he’d said. “Oh. Uh, yes. Fine.” Jack leaned back a little in his chair and waved his hand vaguely in the air. “Go on.”

Hugh smiled excitedly and took a step forward. “Good. Great.” He pulled out his notebook, then began to read it verbatim. “The body was found at half nine this morning. Victoria Civil Ambulance Service was called shortly after and upon discovering the body cold, telephoned City South. Inspector Robinson and Constable Collins arrived on the scene just after half ten. Observed the body, the apparent victim of — ”

Jack held up a hand. “Stop.”

“Sir?”

“I know all that. I was there, remember?”

“Yes. Right. Of course, sir.”

Jack rolled his lips and tried to remember he had been green once too. Perhaps a new tactic was needed. “Just… put that thing down and give me your impressions.”

“Impressions of what?”

Maybe not _that_ green.

“Of the crime scene. What do you remember? Tell me about… tell me about the people.”

“Which ones?”

_Oh for god’s sake…_

“Describe the widow, Collins.”

“Well she had... hair.”

“Hair?”

“No. I mean yes! Hair, but, you know, it was a specific colour.”

“Keen detective work, Constable. Do you happen to recall at all what this colour was?”

Hugh’s brow knit in concentration. “Brown maybe? Or orange? And she was tall. Well not _tall_ , but not short.”

“So she was ‘a height’. Excellent. Any other observations?”

“Her guest was older. Grey hair and... well I don't know how tall she was, sir, she never stood up. She had me sort of, you know, crouch down to interview her. And then she, sort of, dismissed me?”

Jack shifted in his seat and tapped his desk in frustration. “And the other guest?”

“The one in the lavatory? Well she was quite clever, wasn't she, sir?” 

Jack must have telegraphed his thoughts on the matter clearly enough for even Hugh to read, because the lad immediately amended his statement. “Er, or, I mean, she was very nuisance...y.”

Jack closed his eyes briefly to keep from rolling them. “Anyone else, Constable? What about the help?”

“Well there was the, uh, the maid. Sir.”

“Wonderful. Tell me about her.”

“Well she had blonde hair, but not _so_ blonde you know, more like, honest blonde, or, no, _resilient_ blonde.”

Jack quirked an eyebrow. “Resilient blonde?”

“Yes. Exactly. You saw it too.” Hugh nodded in relief and continued. “Right, so, pretty hair and soft brown eyes and her face was quite, symmetrical, but with this little nose that... anyway she was wearing a grey maid's uniform with a lace collar and a bright white apron over it and white stockings and black shoes with the, you know, strap over the top.”

“Mary Janes?”

“No, her name was Dorothy, sir. Dorothy Williams. Though I heard someone call her Dot.”

Hugh rocked back on his heels, finished with his shockingly accurate description, and waited for Jack to speak. When he didn’t do so immediately, instead rubbing the bridge of his nose with his fingers, a worried expression passed over his constable’s face. “Sir?”

Jack let his hand drop and looked up. “Just wondering how big of a problem this is going to be.”

“What, sir?”

“Your obvious interest in the maid.”

Hugh gaped for a moment, then straightened his posture and stood a little taller. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Inspector. You asked me to describe her and I did. I realize I’m still a little inexperienced, but I do have eyes, you know.” 

“That’s not the part I think you were seeing her with.”

“SIR!” Hugh’s aforementioned eyes became roughly the size and shape of dinner plates. “I would _never_ — ”

“Your _heart_ , Collins. Jesus,” he muttered before sighing. “But you’re right, I asked for a description and you gave me one. Can’t very well fault you for that.”

“Thank you, sir.” Hugh took a step back, worrying his notebook as he did. “And I’ll pay more attention to everyone next time, I promise.”

Jack’s expression softened and he attempted a smile. “I’m sure you will. And, really, good job with the maid. Just, you know, pay attention to _everything_ that well.”

“I will sir,” he promised, turning to leave the room. “Though I don’t think all of that is entirely necessary. It’s not like we need that clever lady’s eye colour for the investigation,” he added with a chuckle.

“Blue,” Jack said absently as he picked up his pen again, stopping his hand short as his words caught up to his brain.

Oh. 

Damn.

Jack shook his head to dismiss the insight and as his pen finally touched the paper, he very studiously avoided wondering how big of a problem _that_ was going to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my darling Whopooh, who asked for "Hugh – crime scene – eyes."


	27. Ancient History

City South police station is pleasantly quiet at seven in the evening. 

There’s no constable at the front desk - the one on duty is probably out buying the last pie from the pie cart, if her memory of hungry policemen serves her right - and the drunkards in the cells below are singing some Irish ballad that’s oddly pleasing to her ear. 

She takes a step inside the painfully familiar building and draws a shuddering breath. It has been a little over a year since she’d been here; a little over a year since she’d seen  _ him _ . She feels oddly nervous to be in his presence again.

The door to his office is ajar and she can hear scribbling coming from the inside of the room. Her heart seizes painfully in her chest for a few precious seconds; he’s here, at work, probably filing out that wretched paperwork he used to moan about. The familiarity punches her right in the gut, and she has to take a few breaths to steady herself. 

With a little trepidation and a lot of make-believe spunk that she manages to unearth from the ashes of her confidence, she pushes the door open and pauses. 

He’s hunched over a folder, scrawling away, his free hand supporting his forehead with two long fingers. There’s something achingly intimate in seeing him like this, and she finds herself clenching her fists at the onslaught of long-forgotten emotions that threatens to knock her to the ground.

“Hello, Jack,” she says quietly, afraid she’ll lose her nerve if she keeps standing there in the doorway to his office. 

His head shoots up at the sound of her voice, the pen clutters to the floor. She’s rather relieved that the cup of tea sitting at his elbow is spared from the same fate. 

“Rosie!” he cries in surprise and springs to his feet. “I didn’t know you were back!”

To her astonishment he comes up to her, and, grasping her hands, stoops to kiss her cheek. The scent of his pomade - so very familiar, even after years apart - is yet another emotional punch that sends her reeling and blinking furiously to keep the tears at bay. She doesn’t wish to upset him, not when he’s smiling so openly at her. There’s genuine pleasure in his gestures at seeing her, real pleasure in his eyes, and, for the first time in the week since she’s been back, she finally feels truly welcome in this city. 

“Come in,” he ushers her inside and leads her to the visitor’s chair. “Can I get you some tea?”

“I’ll take whisky if you have it,” she says instead, smiling a little nervously at the astonished look on his face.

To his credit, he recovers swiftly and pours them each a generous helping. She raises her glass in salute, he echoes the gesture with a smile. 

“You look well,” he says after a few sips. “How long have you been back for?”

She shakes her head and places her tumbler on the smooth surface of his desk. 

“Not long, just a few days. I’m sorry I’ve not dropped by earlier, but father’s estate is a lot to manage.”

He nods sympathetically but doesn’t say a word, and she can’t help but feel immensely thankful for his silence, his understanding, his discretion. A woman can always count on Jack Robinson to do the right thing; even if the woman happens to be his former wife.

She’d received word of her father’s passing in prison a few months back, when she was busy visiting her mother’s kin in Bath. A short, rather formal telegram from her sister, followed by a long, detailed letter from Jack. There were no specific details of her father’s death in her former husband’s account, but she was fairly certain she could hazard a guess as to the reason. A copper in prison, especially one as notorious as her father, wasn’t welcome company. 

“What will you do with the house?” Jack asks, yanking her out of her morbid reverie and back to the cosy atmosphere of his warm office. “Will you sell?”

“Yes,” she answers, confident in her answer. “Molly will get her half and I will get mine.” After a moment she adds, a little more subdued, “I’ve yet to decide what to do with my share.”

Jack tilts his head in that maddeningly-familiar way of his and her chest caves in just a smidge; she’s rather surprised to realise that she’d missed this steadfast man and his steadfast gestures. 

“How do you mean?”

“I can’t help but feel that the money is tainted,” she confesses, jabbing the pad of her finger at a small dent in the wood. “Like he paid for the house with...oh, I don’t know.”

“Rosie, that house has been in your family for years. Feel free to use that money to your heart’s content.”

She levels a look at him, searching his eyes for any clues, but Jack - as always - is a closed book. She could never read him as well as she once had, not since the war. That wretched, wretched war; if it hadn’t been for France, they might still be -

But that’s a futile thought, and she’s quite done with those.

“Are you absolutely certain?”

He nods, giving her a reassuring smile. 

“I am.”

She doesn’t ask how he knows, doesn’t inquire after his sources - chances are, he wouldn’t divulge them anyway - but she trusts him completely. She always had, even in the waning years of their failed marriage; especially then. 

“Thank you, Jack.”

He waves her off and pours them a second helping.

“No need, Rosie,” he insists, bringing the whisky to his lips. “Tell me, how’s Molly and the kids?”

They talk of her sister and his family for a while - her brother-in-law has finally decided to leave his old job and open his own law firm, Jack’s brand new niece is attempting her first steps in this world - and Rosie can’t help but study her former husband with the keen observation acquired after decades of living with two detectives. He’s handsome as ever - the cut of his suit as appealing as always, the cheekbones just as sharp - but there’s something else, something more. He looks younger than he did in the greying days of their life together, more invigorated. There’s no tension around his eyes, no perpetual frown; he’s more prone to smiles now, his generous mouth curving easily at her stories. With a sudden jolt, she realises that he’s  _ happy - _ well and truly content with his lot in life - for the first time in years. 

Which brings her to -

“I hear congratulations are in order,” she mentions rather slyly and narrows her eyes at him. “Molly told me about your engagement.” 

He colours rather prettily - the apples of his cheeks flushing with blood - and he lowers his drink and coughs.

“Well, I…” he begins, stammering, and Rosie decides to take pity on the poor man.

“Jack, it’s alright,” she says cordially, and he looks up at her with surprise in his eyes. She does a bit of flushing of her own; she wasn’t always so approving of his romantic partner. “No, truly; I’m very happy for you.”

His eyes smile fondly at her, but he shakes his head.

“No, you don’t understand,” he says, self-deprecating to a fault. “This engagement is more for the sake of society than anything else. We’re quite happy with it remaining indefinite.” 

She had her suspicions, of course - Miss Fisher is hardly the marrying kind - but to hear Jack confirm them so easily is still somewhat shocking. 

“How very modern of you, Jack Robinson,” she quips, more for the sake of covering her rather misplaced astonishment than anything else. It shouldn’t come as a surprise to her - not really - this Jack is very different from the boy she’d married almost two decades ago. She finds that the thought no longer wounds her. 

“Yes, well,” he smiles sheepishly, still flustered. “I do my best to adjust to the times.”

_ ‘You do more than that’, _ she thinks fondly but keeps the thought to herself. Instead, she leans over and reaches for his hand, “Are you happy, Jack?”

He looks down at their clasped hands and nods. 

“Then the rest doesn’t matter,” she says and means it. He smiles in relief, his nose scrunching with the quirk of his lips. She always loved his smiles.

“Perhaps you and Miss Fisher could join me for tea tomorrow?” she surprises both him and herself by asking. A quick rummage through the corners of her heart reveals that she’s rather genuinely looking forward to the company. 

Jack covers their clasped hands with his free palm and squeezes slightly.

“Yes,” he says simply, and nothing more.

It’s been a little over a year since she’d been in this station, since she’d been in this city, since she’d seen him. But for the first time in many months, Rosie Sanderson is finally at ease. 

There’s a lot to be said for steadfast friends. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my beloved Becs, who asked for "Rosie, Jack's office, friends" because she knows me too damn well.  
> Hope you enjoy this, my love!


	28. Perception

The house was very, very quiet and very, very dark, but Jane still moved through it efficiently and without disturbing the silence; she might not quite have the eyes of her foster fox, but she could navigate well enough from memory. And, by the time she made it to the kitchen, her eyes had even grown accustomed to the darkness. Which was why it was such a shock to her senses when all the lights suddenly blinked on at once. She yelped and covered her eyes against the unexpected brightness. 

When she uncovered them she was further shocked to find the kitchen absolutely full of her Wardlow family. Dot and Hugh were sat at the table, Bert and Cec hovered by the door, and behind her Mr Butler now blocked the entrance she had come in. All of them were staring at her, and not a one of them looked happy.

Dot swallowed and gestured for Jane to have a seat at the table, which, reluctantly, she did.

She didn’t say anything though. Luckily Dot didn’t seem to need her to.

“Jane, we’re here because — ”

“So where is it, hmmm?” Bert interrupted. “The foreshore? The parks? Somewhere worse?”

Dot whipped her head around to glare at the cabbie. “Bert! We agreed. No accusations!”

“Not an accusation,” he grumbled. “Just a question.”

Dot narrowed her eyes and shot him one last warning look before turning back around. “Jane, what Bert _meant_ to say, is that we know you’ve been taking the Hispano out at night and we’re very worried about where you’re going.”

Jane sat up with a start. “What? No! I’m not sneaking out to go anywhere.”

“Jane,” Mr Butler said from the doorway, his voice infinitely patient even as he crossed his arms. “I’m afraid you’re not exactly covert — do you know how far I had to move the seat back when I went to do the shopping the other day?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Jane insisted. Dot opened her mouth to say something else and Jane shook her head to stop her. “No, what I mean is I’m just, you know, going to the empty lane around the corner.”

“For what?” Bert asked gruffly, taking a step forward. “You meeting some of those idiot toff boys? Do me and my fists need to have a conversation with ‘em?”

Jane rolled her eyes. “First of all, I’m not interested in idiot boys, toff or otherwise, and secondly, if a chat with anyone’s fists ever becomes necessary, mine are quite capable.”

Cec chuckled and Bert smacked him with his hat.

“Anyway,” Jane continued, “I’m not meeting anyone. I’m… practicing.”

“Practicing what?” Hugh asked.

Jane shrugged and tried to prevaricate, but the result was just that her answer came out as more of a question. “Driving?”

“What?” Dot looked agitated at the notion and Jane suddenly felt very badly for worrying her. “You can’t drive!”

“I can,” Jane insisted. “Well, you know… sort of.”

Hugh frowned and clucked his tongue in frustration. “Jane, that is incredibly dangerous. I _sort of_ know how to defuse an explosive. Doesn’t mean it’s a good idea for me to do it all alone in the middle of the night.”

Jane huffed and shifted her gaze to a newly fascinating spot on the table.

“Jane,” Cec said softly in a tone that compelled her to look up. “Why the sudden need to drive, eh? You know we’d take you anywhere you needed to go.”

Jane looked back down and picked at a whirl in the wood nervously. “It’s not like that. I just… well Miss Phryne had started giving me lessons before she left, and she said she’d finish when she got back, but she’s not brought it up in her letters recently and now she’s been delayed _again_ and…” Jane bit her bottom lip and said the next part very quietly. “I don’t want to be a burden to her if she does return.”

Jane wasn’t looking, so she didn’t see Dot’s face, but she did hear the other woman’s sudden intake of breath and then the scrape of chair legs as she moved her seat closer to Jane’s own. And then her hand was on Jane’s, warm and comforting.

“Jane,” Dot began, sounding so much like she had when Jane had just arrived at Wardlow all those months ago. “Firstly, it’s _when_ , not _if_. Miss Fisher _is_ coming back. And, more importantly, you could _never_ be a burden to her. In fact she would be horrified to hear anyone — least of all you — describe you that way.”

Jane set her shoulders mulishly. “Yes, well, all the same I’d rather avoid being another obligation at home. I think she’ll be so much more pleased if I’m able to just surprise her with the result when she returns.” She shrugged and looked up, meeting Dot’s piercing gaze as she did.

After a long moment, Dot seemed to make a decision, and she nodded. “Alright.”

“Alright what?” Jane asked, suddenly confused.

“Alright, if you want to learn to drive we’ll teach you.”

“We?” Jane asked.

“We?” Hugh and Bert echoed.

“Yes, _we_ ,” Dot confirmed with a meaningful glare at the two men. She pulled out the little notebook she always kept with her and started writing in it. “I’ll make a schedule. For _reasonable_ hours,” she added pointedly. “Hugh and Mr Butler can handle the basics, Bert and Cec can provide more advanced theory, and I can be in charge of parking.” She looked up a little proudly. “I’m excellent at parking.”

“Why…” Jane began, but she didn’t even know exactly what she was asking.

“You’re family,” Cec said simply, leaning back against the counter. “It’s what ya do.”

Jane briefly considered protesting, but then she saw Bert’s nod of agreement and Hugh helping Dot with the schedule and Mr Butler getting out his good driving gloves...

And, for an awful, terribly embarrassing moment, Jane thought she might cry.

“Thank you,” she said instead, her voice not quite as strong as she would have liked, but she blamed it on the late hour.

“Of course,” Dot said, still making notations in her book. “But no more sneaking off. You worried us half to death. Promise?”

“I promise,” Jane said, still surprised, sometimes, that there were people in the world who cared where she was at all. Though, looking around at all the faces in the kitchen, she was finding it easier to believe by the day.

“You do realize this means Miss Fisher will just want to teach you something else though,” Dot mused as she put the finishing touches on her schedule. “And after such a long time away, the more time intensive and one-on-one the better.”

“You really think so?” Jane asked incredulously. 

“Of course,” Dot replied, glancing up briefly with such a look of utter confidence that it upended Jane’s entire understanding of the situation. 

When Dot looked down again, Jane shifted slightly in her seat and frowned; she hadn’t considered that the driving lessons were about anything other than practicality. 

Maybe there was more she still needed to believe in.

“Teach me what?” she wondered. 

“Might I suggest sneaking around?” Mr Butler offered with a wink. “You really could use a lesson or two in being covert.”

“Just what we need,” Hugh muttered, though there was laughter in his eyes as he did. “Three of them.”

Bert snorted. “As though Janey wasn’t already a part of all this.”

And, in the warmth of the kitchen in the middle of the night, Jane could almost believe it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Tara-stofse who asked for "Jane, the Hispano, covert" and got... this. 😂 Hope it's still somewhat in your _wheel_ house, my dear.


	29. Hidden Depth

“I was so distracted by his carry-on, that I… didn’t inspect the vile.”

In the aftermath of her confession, Mac considers the option of being upset with the realization that her momentary distraction caused a man his life. The man in question was a brute and a bully, but he didn’t deserve to die; especially not under her care. There’s enough preventable death in her past even without adding his to the mix, and she finds the knowledge upsetting. She’s a doctor, she’d taken an oath; she’s supposed to save lives, not the other way around. 

“So, is Mac off the hook, then, Inspector?” Phryne’s inquiry brings her back to the present, and she levels her gaze at the man in front of her. His focused eyes are dark and unreadable enough to make her genuinely curious about what’s going on in his head. It’s a surprising realisation; it’s been years since she’d cared enough to wonder about the contents of a man’s mind.

It does make  _ some  _ sense, if one thinks about it; it’s a closed book placed in front of an academic. It’s only natural she’d like to have a peek inside. 

“Yes,” the man rumbles after a few moments of silence. “You’re free to go, Doctor Macmillan.” 

“Wonderful!” Phryne cries and brings her hands together. “Come along, darling, I’ll drive you home.”

Mac turns to her, smiling. “Thank you. You go ahead, I’ll just be a moment.”

There’s something she must do first.

If Phryne is surprised at her curious dismissal, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she reaches for her hat and places it on her head with a practised air of a woman who lives and breathes style.

“I’ll start the car, then, shall I,” she says, surprisingly brightly, before turning to the Inspector. “You’re heading to the factory, Jack - to interview Joyce? I can meet you there.” 

Mac is surprised to see a small twitch in the inspector’s lips.

“No need, Miss Fisher,” he says. His voice is as neutral as ever, but something in his countenance is different; she can’t quite put her finger on it. “I’ll be conducting the interview here. You’re welcome to join in.” 

Phryne flashes him a smile as bright as the sun, and sails out of the office with nothing more than a wink at the two remaining occupants. Upon her exit, the warmth seems to seep out of the room, leaving it almost deathly quiet. Phryne has always had the ability to bring life even to the dullest of places. And what’s duller than a policeman’s office?

Mac looks away from the recently vacated spot and finds the Inspector studying her. 

“How may I be of service, Doctor?” he asks, his language oddly stiff, but his demeanour no more rigid than it was a minute ago. The man is a puzzle.

Well, there’s no point in dragging this out; she’d better jump the gun.

“Will you be reporting this to the hospital?” she asks steadily, her eyes sharp and unyielding.

The Inspector shrugs, the corners of his mouth dragging downwards. Mac has the strong feeling he’s about to become deliberately obtuse. 

“Whatever for? You’re no longer a murder suspect,” he says, proving her right.

But she has just spent the night and the better part of her day stuck in a damp cell and she hasn’t got the time or the inclination for this sort of mind games.

“Don’t be coy, Inspector,” she cuts, sharply. “You’re perfectly aware that it’s my ‘ _ unnatural inclinations’ _ we’re discussing, not my hypothetical murderous nature.”

It’s not, strictly speaking,  _ illegal  _ to have Sapphic tendencies - she’s not about to be incarcerated - but the Inspector is well within his rights to apply to the Hospital Board and inform them of her ‘ _ abnormal leanings’ _ . He certainly wouldn’t be the first public servant to employ such a tactic, nor would he be the last. Inspector Robinson, she knows, may very well bring about her ruin. 

The man in question doesn’t answer, he just sticks his hands in his trouser pockets and blinks, dragging the silence out. Mac finds it irritatingly unnerving. 

When Phryne first concocted this scheme of hers - this ‘lady detective’ business - Mac had made some inquiries about her friend’s reluctant partner. The reports that reached her were rather intriguing. Jack Robinson was generally considered to be straight as an arrow and sharp as a knife; not much for company, but definitely the man you’d want at your side at a raid or an ambush. A cool, collected man with keen instincts and a keener mind. His cases fared well in court, his arrests were neat; there were zero reports of misconduct. Jack Robinson was described as unbendable, unyielding, and dull as dishwater.

Looking at him now, she can’t help but feel that the reports may have underestimated the man.

“Well?” she prompts, rather impatiently. It’s only a matter of time before Phryne decides to storm the fort in search of her. 

The Inspector rolls his lips and shrugs again.

“Does your choice of a bed partner affect your capabilities as a physician?” he asks levelly. 

Mac’s eyes widen in astonishment.

“Of course not!” she exclaims, a little outraged. How dare he insinuate that she -

“I didn’t think so,” he says, effectively nipping her boiling inner monologue in the bud. “Whatever you do in your private life is none of my business, Doctor Macmillan. Nor should it be anyone else’s. Your position is safe.” 

Mac stares at him for a few long moments, trying to make sense of the situation and the man.

“Why?” she asks, at last, confident that he’ll understand the underlying meaning behind the single word.

“Call it a lapse in constabulary judgment,” he says, tilting his head and offering her a little smile that can really only be described as ‘self-deprecating’. The man isn’t a puzzle; he’s a bloody enigma. 

She rises from her seat and offers him her hand. After a moment, he offers her his own and they shake.

“You’re not half-bad, Inspector,” she praises him, pleased to see that the smile stays on his face.

“For a copper?”

“For a man.”

He nods amicably at her, slides the hand back into his pocket, and leans against his office wall.

“I’ll take that as the highest praise,” he rumbles, nose scrunching in avid amusement.

_ Full marks, Inspector _ , Mac thinks, approvingly. There’s hope for the man, yet.

“As you well should,” she says, and exits the office without any additional word.

Outside, she spots Phryne in her car, face tilted backwards in an attempt to absorb the last rays of the afternoon sun. Mac raps on the hood of the Hispano with slightly more zeal than appropriate; with all due respect to her friend’s elegant neck and charming chin, she’s hungry and filthy and tired and could really use a stiff drink. Or Ten. 

Phryne jumps in her seat and fixes Mac with an unamused look.

“How was your heart-to-heart with Inspector Robinson?” she demands, barely able to conceal the evident note of curiosity in her voice. Mac smirks and slides inside the passenger seat, taking a deep breath of freedom.

“I’m starting to understand what you see in him,” she can’t help but tease, and Phryne’s face breaks into a wide grin.

“Jack is something else, isn’t he?” she asks rhetorically. She doesn’t need Mac’s opinion on the subject, but if she did, then the doctor would have to grudgingly agree. The man certainly has some hidden depths. 

Not bad for a copper. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the lovely SnowyMary, who asked for "Mac, City South, book." Hope you like it, dear!


	30. Award

Phryne tapped her foot impatiently against the tile floor, the sound reverberating off the walls louder than she’d meant it to.

In fairness, though, these halls were hardly built with women or their footwear in mind.

She glanced over once more at the clock; impossibly, only a minute had passed since the last time she’d looked. Phryne sighed and resumed her tapping. Across the hallway, Mrs Beasley, secretary and guard dog to the Police Commissioner, sat typing at her desk. She looked up and gave Phryne another disdainful once over.

She’s been doing that every three minutes or so since Phryne had arrived and demanded to see the Commissioner immediately. Mrs Beasley had informed Phryne that the Commissioner was already in a meeting, to which Phryne had replied that she’d be happy to wait.

Which is when the disdainful looks had started.

Still, Phryne was here on a mission and she didn’t want to antagonize any potential allies unless it became absolutely necessary, so she’d held her tongue, smiled pleasantly at Mrs Beasley, and taken a seat in the hallway outside his office.

She’s been holding her tongue and pleasantly smiling for half an hour now and really she deserved a goddamned award for it.

_Tap, tap, tap, tap…_

Phryne was just about to consider a more “damn the torpedoes” approach when the door swung open and two men walked out. Phryne sighed in relief — _finally_ — and stood, only to stop short when she realized that of the two men, the one who wasn’t the Commissioner was none other than Jack Robinson.

He noticed her too, of course he did, but didn’t acknowledge her. Just shook hands with the Commissioner in goodbye and started down the hall. Phryne followed him with her eyes for several long moments until a door slamming behind her pulled her attention back to her original purpose for being there.

But when she looked over now, both the Commissioner and Mrs Beasley were behind his closed door.

Goddamn it!

With an aggravated huff she spun on her heels and followed after Jack — if she was to be further delayed with her own meeting at least she could find out the purpose of his.

She caught up to him at the top of the stairs and, without missing a beat, he held the door open for her.

“Miss Fisher,” he greeted placidly. “I didn’t realize you had business at Russell Street today.”

“I could say the same for you, Jack,” she replied, breezing past him just for the pleasure of having him catch up to her, which he immediately did. “Why _are_ you here today?”

He smiled that little crooked smile of his and tilted his head down to her as they found a rhythm and began walking in sync. 

“Ladies first,” he told her genially, but with an unreadable tone that suggested he would be very, very good at poker.

Phryne shrugged even as she decided to tell him; she usually didn’t like to show her own cards so early, but she could probably use some help here and as far as potential allies went, Jack Robinson was aces.

“I’m here as a character reference,” she told him, omitting the part about no one inviting her to do so. “For Mac.”

“Mac?” he asked. “Whatever for?”

“Well,” she said as they continued down the hall, “as I am sure you know, Mac was supposed to take over for Dr. Johnson as Coroner next week.”

“Supposed to?”

“Hmmm. Everything was in place except apparently some higher up starting making noise at a social event recently about having a woman coroner and wasn’t it unseemly and a bunch of other rubbish I won’t dignify by repeating. So now the position is ‘on hold’ which is absolutely unacceptable. Mac was thoroughly vetted and she _earned_ that job. If they want to take it back now, they can damn well go through me.”

“As a character reference?” he clarified, humour laced through his voice.

“Absolutely,” she confirmed blithely. “And I will be happy to provide them the very best of references up to and including my right hook. Though it probably won’t come to that.”

“Probably,” he concurred.

“And you?” she asked, finally bringing the conversation back around. “What are you here for? Hopefully nothing to do with…”

She left the names Sanderson and Fletcher unspoken for both their sakes, and was very relieved when he shook his head.

“No, no. As it happens, Miss Fisher, I am here for the same reason you are.”

Phryne stopped in her tracks. 

“What?” she called after him, utterly shocked. He turned, thoroughly amused at her reaction, and took the few steps back to stand beside her.

“I heard the same rumours you did and wanted to express to the new Commissioner how qualified for the position I consider Dr MacMillan to be.”

“Really?”

“Mmmm,” he confirmed. “Apparently I have a little, let’s say pull, right now, and I was able to get a meeting to share my opinion.”

“Well did it work?” she asked impatiently.

Jack wobbled his head a bit as his expression turned thoughtful. “I believe it did. The Commissioner seemed quite reassured in his original decision when I left.”

Phryne blinked at him, not quite sure what to say. “Jack, that’s… incredible.”

He shook his head and smiled that self-deprecating smile she so badly wanted to get more intimately acquainted with. “She deserves it, Phryne. She worked hard to get here and… well I just reminded him of the many reasons he’d hired her in the first place, and the support the constabulary would likely gain from her many local community connections as a result.”

“That’s all?”

“I may also have pointed out that Toronto’s had a female coroner since before the turn of the century.” Jack’s smile became a little cheeky. “The Commissioner didn’t care to hear how far behind our fellows in the Great White North we are here in Melbourne.”

Phryne laughed. “Jack Robinson, you dark horse. I am astounded.”

Jack raised his eyebrows and tilted his head. “Surprising the indomitable Phryne Fisher _and_ persuading the Commissioner — my, my it really has been a banner day,” he declared, dry as the toast she’d stolen from him just last week.

Phryne rolled her eyes and turned to start walking again, out the door and onto the street, and this time when he caught up to her he offered his arm. She supposed they were far enough away from official officials now to be seen touching, even if it was entirely innocent.

 _Well_ , she thought as she took his arm and angled herself just so, _mostly innocent anyway._

“Thank you,” she said quietly, giving his bicep an almost imperceptible squeeze. “This will mean a lot to her.”

Jack didn’t answer, but she thought she might have felt a barely perceptible squeeze of her own in return. She smiled and returned to her normal volume, their normal cadence. “Though I have to say, Jack, I am a little surprised. Helping Mac, _my Mac_ , get the job? Aren’t you afraid we’ll gang up on you?”

Jack shrugged, lifting her arm up with his own where they were attached. “What makes you so sure she’ll take your side?” he asked.

“She’s my oldest friend,” Phryne happily reminded him.

“Precisely,” he replied. “She knows all your tricks, Miss Fisher. She’s immune to your... charms.”

Phryne glanced up at him from beneath her lashes and gave him a very deliberate look. “No one is immune to my charms, Jack.”

“We’ll see about that.” Jack’s expression as he said it was neutral, but his eyes were full of fire, though whether he hoped to prove her right or prove her wrong, she wasn’t yet sure.

“Yes, we will,” she agreed. She’d wanted Jack Robinson for a very long time, and now that they were on the precipice of… _something_ , she had no intentions of walking away, no matter how long it took for them to fall in step.

After all, she’d been incredibly patient so far.

And she deserved a goddamned award for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the lovely and apparently prescient (see below) Particularfavorite, who asked for "Phryne, Russell St HQ, award."
> 
> So the result of Arlome and I just grabbing a handful of prompts each and working independently for the most part is that we rarely knew what the other was going to post or when until right before it went up. Which is why it was SUCH a delight to read her story yesterday (fabulous as always, my darling!) and see how wonderfully it fit together with mine for today. Call it fate or a coincidence or two people clearly MFMM mind melding, but whatever it was I was tickled by the result.
> 
> And really, we could all use more Mac and Jack and Phryne in our lives, right? 😉
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this penultimate (!) chapter and see you tomorrow for our final (!!!) Fic Off 2020!


	31. Memorable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well after the accidental mind meld of Chapters 29 and 30 we decided to just listen to the universe, go for it, and co-write this one together.
> 
> (Just kidding, co-writing this final story has been the plan from the beginning.)
> 
> So here we are at the end. Thank you for joining us on this mad, lovely ride as we eagerly — and verbosely — bid 2020 goodbye. We wish you all the very, very best for 2021!
> 
> HAPPY NEW YEAR! 🎉
> 
> XOXO, Arlome and Aurora
> 
> This final chapter is for our dearest Bluecityrose, who asked for “Phryne, on the beach, nostalgic.”

The idea to hail the new decade together — or, rather, the idea to flee their ebullient family and friends — is born within three days of being back on Australian soil. 

Two days of overjoyed sighs from Mrs Collins and thickly spread hints from Mrs Stanley are enough for Phryne to take matters into her own hands.

“I love them all exceedingly,” she confesses to him when they are both lying naked on his still made bed, “but I shall go mad if this continues.”

“You need to give them time, that’s all,” he says, pulling her to him and pressing her bottom. “The novelty of this will wear off and they’ll leave us be.”

Phryne pouts, but leans further into him.

“You’re only saying that because Hugh isn’t daydreaming at you,” she mutters, pinching the skin over his ribs. He jolts, chuckling deeply, and she smiles. “Jack, let’s go away — just the two of us — we’ll celebrate New Year’s Eve together…”

He kisses her forehead, her eyelids, her lips, her nose.

“Aren’t you tired of me yet, Miss Fisher?” he quips and she swats at his chest. “Really, Phryne, I would, but we just got back, and — ”

“Just New Year’s Eve, Jack,” she pleads, spearing her fingers into his loose hair. “You could be back in time for the day shift. I have a friend who owns a holiday home not far from here. It’s right by the sea, very secluded. She’s not using it now, she’s gone off to her mother’s in Sydney. What do you say?”

He smiles softly and rolls on his back, bringing her to lie atop of him.

“How can I possibly refuse, Miss Fisher?”

She bounds off him faster than she can cry out his name in ecstasy and lunges for the phone.

They are delayed in their departure however — not murder this time, just life — and by the time they reach her friend’s borrowed holiday home it is very late on December 31st. So late, in fact, that they have to hurry to grab the blanket and the champagne and the glasses in order to make it down to the water’s edge before midnight. But they do, with many minutes to spare as it happens, so she spreads the blanket and he pops the bottle and they fill their glasses and then settle down to wait out the clock and begin the new decade together.

She is leaning against his chest, eyes on the calm seas ahead of them, when she asks him.

“So what was your most memorable New Year’s Eve, Jack?”

He doesn’t need to cast the net of recollection too far to fish _that_ particular memory out.

“The one of 1911 certainly made quite an impression,” he laughs ruefully, and Phryne leans her head back on his shoulder and looks up at him.

“That good?” she asks slyly, her upturned face illuminated rather ethereally by the faint light of the distant moon. 

_‘Thou art fair, O my beloved’,_ he thinks — perhaps a little too sentimentally, given the woman in question — and smiles. “Not quite.”

Phryne’s eyebrows arch in interest and disappear into her fringe. 

“Oh?” she asks casually, her voice ringing a little higher than usual. 

Jack leans down to kiss her forehead fondly, simply because he can. This thing between them is new, even though it’s not, and will require new offerings of themselves to work; insight he gained over many years at an incredibly high cost. So he’ll indulge her tonight, tell her this tale and break down some walls, share this intimate little morsel of his past with her curious heart. He finds this thought almost exhilarating. 

“New Year’s Eve of 1911 was the collateral damage of Christmas 1911,” he divulges cryptically, knowing that it will only fan the fires of Phryne’s curiosity. Sure enough, she springs from her reclining position and turns to scrutinise him.

“You’re not very forthcoming, Inspector,” she admonishes him, her eyes sparkling even in near-darkness. “Are you going to cough up or not?”

Jack laughs.

“And you’re not very patient, Miss Fisher,” he retorts, lying down on the blanket and pillowing his head on his interlaced fingers. “I’m getting there.”

Phryne lowers herself onto her stomach next to him and crosses her arms over his chest.

“Go on, then,” she encourages him, tapping his ribs with her fingers. “Or the decade will end before you _get there_.”

He rolls his eyes at her smug smile and sighs.

“Very well. As I was saying, Christmas 1911 was — well, it was a disaster, really. I had just informed my parents that I’d decided to cancel my enrollment into the University of Melbourne and go into the police academy instead,” he snorts, the years passed providing him with the much needed distance to see the events of that time in a slightly more humorous light. “You can only imagine how well that went with my parents.” 

“I bet,” Phryne breathes, her eyes wide.

“Hmmm, yes. And to make things worse, I’d decided to confess my intentions towards Rosie and her hand.” 

“No!”

Jack chuckles, looking at the delighted astonishment on her face with great fondness.

“Oh, it was such an utter mess, Phryne,” he sighs, still smiling. “My mother was in tears, my father asked if I’d gotten Rosie in trouble; all in all, it’d been a rather rotten Christmas, followed by some very tense days and a somewhat tempestuous New Year’s Eve.”

“You poor dear,” she smirks at him, and he gets the distinct feeling that she’s rather enjoying his past misfortunes. 

“Oh, I wasn’t finished,” he declares, and her eyes light up in ill-disguised glee. 

Oh, but he loves her.

“Did you run over a puppy with your pushbike? Rob a flock of defenceless biddies in your ire?” she quips. “How worse can it get?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say it got worse. It just got... more.”

“More?”

“Hmmm,” Jack hums in concurrence, and glances up at the dark sky. The evening is clear enough to see the stars. He had missed the familiar constellations back in London. “Over the next few days after Christmas, my mother had refused to speak to me. Not a single word! The atmosphere had gotten... tense. So, by New Year’s Eve, I’d worked myself into quite the state. Angry and agitated and disappointed, I’d decided to spend the evening with Rosie, instead of with my family. I took the pushbike, a picnic basket, a blanket, and out into the world we went.” 

Phryne’s smile turns soft and she leans her chin over her folded arms, looking at him with gentle eyes.

“Sounds romantic.”

“Oh, it should have been,” he agrees, releasing one of his hands to trail his fingers down her back, “but all I could think of was the situation back at home. One questioning look from Rosie was all it took for me to go into a long-winded rant about my parents’ pigheadedness, which culminated in my accidentally proposing.” 

Phryne jaw drops at his confession. 

“How on earth — ?” she trails off, smiling bewilderedly at him.

“I may have said something along the lines of ‘ _and I told them I wanted to marry you_ ’,” he chuckles. “I can’t remember the exact phrasing. At any rate, the cat was truly well and out of the bag with that.”

Phryne’s eyes are laughing. His fingers trail upwards to her shoulder and circle the soft skin there. She seems charmed by this part of his tale. He’s rather charmed by her.

“Well, it worked,” she points out and he nods.

“Yes, it did. I was mortified, of course, but Rosie — Rosie was delighted. We ended up making love for the first time that night. It was horrible,” he laughs warmly.

“Jack…” Phryne breathes, just a little overcome. 

He smiles at her tenderly, brushes his fingers down her arm. It’s a night for smiling, apparently — and laughing, and being happy. A night for being irrevocably in — 

“And you?” he asks, his heart thudding. He’s yet to voice his thoughts on the matter of his heart. At least, not explicitly. “What was your most memorable New Year’s Eve?”

Phryne purses her lips and thinks, an adorable image he will never tell her presents as such.

“1920,” she decides finally. “I’d never really liked New Year’s much before that. Too close to my birthday, too close to... Anyway, I’d mostly avoided celebrating it up to then. But by 1920 I had finally moved on, mostly, from the war, from,” she pauses minutely, “Paris. And I was visiting a friend in Denmark.”

“An old friend?” he teases.

“Not old at the time,” she teases right back. “Anyway, we were leaving a wonderful dinner, walking down the street, when suddenly one of our party reached into her bag, pulled out a plate, and smashed it against a wall.”

“What?” Jack’s question comes out as a laugh, so surprised is he at her story.

“I know, I was equally shocked. But apparently that’s just... done there. You keep your chipped and unwanted items of crockery, and then you smash them against the front doors of your friends on the last night of the year to bring them good luck.”

“That’s... certainly one way to celebrate the new year.”

"It is," she agrees. "And at first I was... well I’ve never much enjoyed the sound of dishware breaking. Growing up it usually meant Father was on a bender and it’s not like we had extra money to replace them. So I didn’t really think I’d enjoy the tradition. But then someone put a plate in my hand and I thought, ‘when in Copenhagen,’ and I smashed it against the door and it felt… it felt amazing.”

“Yes, I can see how destroying property in celebration would appeal to you,” he replies dryly. “If I recall, you commemorated your return to Melbourne by blowing up a Turkish bathhouse.”

Phryne rolls her eyes. “Oh, ha ha. No, _Inspector_ , it was more than that. It was...”

Phryne trails off, her eyes on the horizon, contemplative and unfocused, until suddenly they catch fire and she turns to face him fully. “Do you know what I think?” she asks, almost breathless with the acute excitement she always exudes when she’s solved a puzzle. And, as usual, he feels breathless right along with her.

“Tell me,” he says, a request and an offer.

“I think the world is full of miracles. Not, you know, like Dot’s miracles, but more like… more like _people_ miracles. I think the world can be a terrible, unfair, painful place but in the midst of all that — no, _because_ of all that — people keep finding ways to make joy. To pull happiness from the ashes like a phoenix by sheer will. Give people some time and love and they will create magic out of mayhem and a wish for good fortune from a chipped cup. And that year, Jack, that New Year’s... I think that’s when I started to believe in the magic of people again.”

He stares at her, unblinking for a moment and she rolls her eyes again, this time at herself. “You probably think that’s silly,” she says.

Jack shakes his head and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear.

_This woman..._

“Not silly at all,” he assures her. “In fact, I’m beginning to believe in miracles again myself.”

“Is that so?” she asks, cocking an eyebrow and meeting his eye.

“Absolutely. You turned a dour detective into a happy man, Miss Fisher. Miracle.”

Phryne shakes her head and cups his cheek. “As usual, my darling, you give yourself too little credit. But, as it happens, you turned a happy woman into an ecstatic one. So I see your point.”

There is nothing to do in that moment but kiss her.

So he does.

He kisses her right into 1930 in fact.

“You know, Jack, I’ve been thinking,” she says, the first words of the decade, and honestly he can’t think of better ones. “This is a terribly secluded expanse of beach. No other houses for ages.”

“Is that so?” he asks, his hand already moving up the expanse of her thigh. “Perhaps, then, we ought to see to that ecstasy you were talking about?”

Phryne cackles with glee and rolls him over top of her. “My my, Inspector, I _have_ fully corrupted you, haven’t I?”

“It’s a miracle,” he declares and then it is just her laughter and his smile and a new decade stretching wide and wonderful ahead of them.

And he already knows that if years from now someone asks him what his most memorable New Year’s was, he will say that many were memorable, but this... this was his favourite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Thou art fair, O my beloved" is from _Song of Songs_.


End file.
